


Shadowmarks

by toastycyborg



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, ワンパンマン | One-Punch Man
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dragonborn!Saitama, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, POV shifts, Past Tense, Saitama is eventually cured, Skyrim AU, Vampire!Saitama, Werewolf!Genos, alternate universe - skyrim, blood and mild gore, canon minor characters - Freeform, content warnings in the chapter notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 61,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8447335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastycyborg/pseuds/toastycyborg
Summary: Alduin, the World Eater, is dead. Skyrim is free, and Dragonborn Saitama and his disciple Genos are to be wed. However, with trouble brewing in Solstheim - and a more immediate threat in Saitama's own blood - it seems the gods want this couple to earn their happy ending.
  Sequel to Blood on the Ice





	1. A Night to Remember

**Author's Note:**

> _One Punch Man_ and _The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim_ , and all of their characters therein, are property of ONE and Bethesda Game Studios respectively. No copyright infringement is intended in this fanfiction.

*

 

The last thing that Saitama expected to feel on his wedding day was ill.

He had felt _off_ for the last few days. A little weak, a little tired, eyes sore and sensitive to the sun. He chalked it up to nerves, anticipation of the ‘big day’ keeping him up at night. Genos, of course, had almost worried himself sick – since when did Saitama get _ill_? – but the Nord had brushed him off, and insisted he was well enough to go through with the ceremony.

Now, though, at the look of pure affection on his soon-to-be husband’s face, Saitama felt like he could melt on the spot.

A priestess of Mara stood ready for them, waiting behind a makeshift shrine at the end of the pier. It was a humble thing: candles and fresh flowers and a handsome, circular statuette. The priestess wore brown and gold, traditional robes, ruffled by the midwinter breeze that roamed the valleys of The Pale. Six guests gathered on the bank of the lake outside the Nightgate Inn, witnesses to the blessed union about to unfold.

This frigid nook in the mountains between Dawnstar and Windhelm was not the first place most would think to hold a wedding. It was small, mediocre, a misty pond beside a lonely tavern in the middle of nowhere. Genos had at first planned a grand ceremony, heart set on somewhere warm and scenic. As a moneyed Breton from a milder climate than Skyrim, Saitama understood why. All the same, the reclusive Nord had requested something smaller – something more private.

Like always, Genos had been quick to bend and please his fiancé. In days he had decided on this place. The jetty made a perfect aisle, he had said, roofed in case of bad weather, and far enough from civilisation that they would not be disturbed. Saitama apologised for his introverted ways, for denying Genos a more picturesque setting – but Genos promised that he did not mind. For the sake of his beloved, he could tolerate an extra layer of furs over his robes.

As the couple walked down the jetty toward the priestess, hand-in-hand, Saitama found his gaze drawn to the young man at his side.

With head held high and broad shoulders squared, dressed prim in fine clothes, Genos looked more handsome than Saitama had ever seen him. Satisfaction stretched the blond’s mouth wide, silver eyes aglow, colour in his cheeks. Part of the latter may have been due to the snow-flecked wind, thought the Nord, but no complaints cut the creak of footfalls as they neared the shrine.

Despite the heat in his face, the belly butterflies, Saitama felt out-of-place in such expensive, colourful clothes. His set was looser than Genos’s, green and yellow where his partner wore blue. They felt too baggy, foreign, so different to his usual leather armour. He dared not grumble, however; they had cost too much gold for him to protest the itchy fabric and its strong dye smell. He would not let simple discomfort ruin their wedding.

That thought made him falter, as the reality of the occasion sank in. Their _wedding_.

By the gods, he thought, they were getting _married_.

Planning the event had opened the Nord’s eyes to just how many people he _knew_ , how many lives he had touched in his endeavours as Dragonborn. But, at his request – and with many stifled sighs from Genos – they had managed to keep the headcount low. Saitama, in turn, had been convinced not to invite Paarthurnax. It was already dangerous, Genos said, to invite people who did not know he was a werewolf. He would be careful where he looked – but if anyone recognised what his silver eyes meant, chaos would no doubt ensue. Having a dragon swoop overhead, on the other hand, would be a lot more difficult to hide.

The couple stopped at the end of the pier and faced each other. Nervous energy bounced between them, excited smirks and anxious eyes damning their attempts to appear solemn. They stood in silence, and waited for the priestess to begin the vows. Mist from the lake ghosted over their boots, snowflakes clinging to Genos’s hair. The sky shone pale and clear, sun bright but cold, restless zephyrs roving over the rocky hills around the pool.

While they waited, awkward, Genos’s smile spread into soft, unfiltered adoration. There was no shame in his face, no sign that he even remembered they had an audience. Saitama looked away, suddenly clammy with self-doubt. He could not understand the abrupt twist of panic in his gut, the shortness of breath. The spike of conflicting emotions made him dizzy, and he glanced around to calm himself down.

The first thing he focused on was Collette Marence, a professor from the College of Winterhold and one of Genos’s tutors. Gruff old Kimmek of Ivarstead stood between her and Calcelmo, the bumptious elf scholar who had granted Genos his prosthetic arm. A willowy Dark Elf lurked a short ways up the shore. Saitama knew her as Karliah, a member of the Thieves Guild, and one of the few people whom he would trust with his life. Beside Karliah stood a second Dunmer; Dreyla Alor of Solstheim, the island between Skyrim and Morrowind. Their final guest was Aslfur, Steward of Morthal, sent to represent his wife, whose duties as Jarl kept her from attending the ceremony.

Saitama’s stare tangled with Karliah’s. She raised an eyebrow at him, as if unable to believe that he had landed himself a husband. Blood pounded in his ears, the too-bright snow stinging his eyes. Uneasy under her gaze, Saitama felt a rush of gratitude when the priestess at last began to speak.

He whipped his attention back to Genos, peered up at him with head bowed and mouth dry. The blond’s fond smile widened at his love’s show of nerves, and he gave Saitama’s sweat-damp hands a firm squeeze. The sensation was comforting: one palm warm flesh and bone, the other unyielding metal and mechanisms. The Nord steeled himself in its familiarity, and let out his held breath in a shaky stream.

He could Shout dragons from the sky with ease, could breathe fire and punch through mountains. He had defeated Alduin, the dreaded World-Eater, in a disappointingly quick and easy battle, with not a scratch to his person. Surely, _surely_ , he could handle one simple wedding – even if he was coming down with a cold.

Saitama urged himself to stand straight. He disliked the pressure of so many eyes on him at once, but the ceremony was not about _them_. This was not a performance, he told himself. It was about him and Genos.

There was no second-guessing it. He wanted – _longed_ – to be with Genos, forever. To be joined, to _have_ each other, whole and earnest. The month since Genos proposed had been wonderful, adventurous, and the prospect of a future together sang sweet in Saitama’s veins. It felt right.

Yet, the old worries would not sit still – lingering doubts that he was good enough for the blond. No matter how many times Genos reassured him of his devotion, of how perfect Saitama was, the niggles would persist. _I’m old, I’m lazy, I’m not smart. What if I stop feeling again? What if he finds someone better, younger? Does he_ want _this, or is he just going along with it to make me happy?_

Saitama swallowed hard, shook his head. He needed to muddle through the insecurities, to shut down the doubts. These fears were born of the crowd watching, of being judged, of making public the bubbling _completeness_ in his heart. He loved Genos, with every ounce of his being, more than he had once imagined possible. Always, in that stubborn voice of his, Genos swore the same right back. He swore that Saitama was his moon and stars, was flawless, and promised to love and protect him until their souls burned out.

It was enough.

Genos met his eye, a dusting of white on his fur-wreathed shoulders. As if able to read his mind, he mouthed, _I love you_. At once the Nord felt better, and he managed a small smile.

“…may they journey forth together,” the priestess continued, hands raised above the makeshift shrine, “in this life and the next, in prosperity and poverty, and in joy and hardship.”

Saitama drummed on his partner’s mechanical knuckles. Their audience melted away from his vision, the mountains and light snowfall forgotten. He thumbed a groove in the metal, affectionate, and Genos laced their fingers tighter as they both twisted to face the priestess.

“Do you agree to be bound together,” she said to the blond, “in love, now and forever?”

“I do,” said Genos, without hesitation. “Now, and forever.”

Saitama closed his eyes, and gave a contented sigh. He composed himself when the priestess addressed him, all misgivings gone.

“Do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?”

He nodded once. “I do,” he said, the words a little breathier than intended. “Now and forever.”

“Then,” said the priestess, “under the authority of Mara, the Divine of Love, I declare this couple to be wed.”

The world slid back into focus, and Saitama tensed at the sound of scattered clapping. He looked back, along the narrow pier to the shore, to find Klimmek leading the other guests in modest applause. Saitama breathed a second sigh – of relief, this time – and turned again to Genos as the priestess gave them their wedding rings.

Before the Nord could speak, Genos cupped his face in both hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. Saitama laughed into it, and willed away the wetness in his eyes as someone whistled in the crowd.

He lost track of time after that.

They moved back onto solid land, off the pier, and mingled with their guests. Karliah disappeared not long after the vows – no doubt, thought Saitama, with a handful of gold from the pockets of everyone around her. Calcelmo followed soon after, with the self-important claim that he had to get back to his research. While Genos thanked the scholar for coming, Saitama – still bitter over the giant spider incident – simply nodded him off without a word.

The party lingered by the lake a while, surrounded by frosted pines and rock formations. The innkeeper brought out ale and food, and conversation waxed and waned in all directions. Saitama felt almost on-edge, eager for time alone with his husband, though soon learned that Genos was more interested in socialising.

Aslfur was next to leave, though not before pulling the newlyweds aside to apologise for his wife’s absence.

“The Jarl was honoured to have been invited, Dragonborn,” said the stern, middle-aged man. “Unfortunately, her duties to Hjaalmarch keep her very busy. I must return now, and help her manage the court.”

Saitama gave a start, and stopped twisting his new ring around his finger. “Sure, okay,” he said. Close beside him, Genos nodded. “Thanks, y’know, for coming.”

Aslfur straightened his long hair, where the bitter wind had blown it awry. “We would thank you both once again for your help with the vampires, days ago,” he said. “We couldn’t have dealt with them without you. To think, a lair of those filthy things, so close to the city … Morthal owes you a great debt. Thank you.”

Genos spoke up. “Of course,” he said.

“That’s what heroes do,” Saitama added, “right?”

Aslfur flashed them a quick smile, wished the couple well in their marriage, and headed off down the slush-strewn road.

With his bottle of mead drained, Saitama suggested their last two guests move indoors to warm up. Collette politely declined, and apologised that she should return to the College soon. Genos thanked her for accepting his invitation, and asked for a few last-minute tips on Restoration magic. Saitama shook her hand in farewell; she was nice enough, he thought, a Breton, like Genos.

Once the professor was on her way, Dreyla – the last guest – crossed her slender arms. “I’ll never say no to another drink,” she said.

Through the corner of his eye, Saitama saw Genos double-take. The Nord smiled; he should have known that the mage would not have heard a Solstheim accent before.

Dreyla and the newlyweds headed up the ice-piled steps and into the inn. Its interior resembled most other taverns in Skyrim, with high ceilings and wall-mounted animal skulls, pelt rugs spread about the stone floors. A single patron occupied one table across from the entrance, the fire pit burning down to low embers. The trio bought drinks and took seats on the hard bench near the bar, and made aimless chatter while they drank.

Saitama felt more at-ease than before. This was peaceful, relaxed, more of a casual gathering than a wedding party. He linked hands with Genos under the table, and leaned their shoulders together.

“It’s nice to get off the island,” said Dreyla, her thin face creased by a smile. “Things have been a little mad lately.”

Saitama set down his flagon. “How’s your dad?”

Dreyla swirled her mug of ale. “He’s well,” she said. “Thanks. He’d have been here too, but, someone has to look after the stall.”

An awkward silence settled between them. Saitama once more began to twist his wedding ring around his finger, unused to how it felt. He was not one for jewellery – but in this case, he would make an exception.

After a few minutes, Dreyla looked at him in earnest. “Thanks again for helping us, way back when,” she said. “What you did meant a lot to us. I don’t think our business would’ve survived without you. To be honest, I’m surprised you even remembered us – Dragonborn, and all.”

Genos watched the exchange without speaking, weak ale in hand, at ease with Saitama’s friend. She smelled burnt, almost, like ash and smoke, the scent steeped deep in her dull clothes. The design of her outfit caught his interest, foreign, clearly not tailored in Skyrim. She had his approval, for now, for treating Saitama with respect.

“Sure,” said Saitama, and he ducked into his flagon. “You actually thanked me back then. That … didn’t used to happen a lot.”

Dreyla and Genos both smiled.

The second silence was more comfortable than the first, filled with the crackle of tame flames and steady slurps of alcohol. After a while, sated, Genos set down his drink. “You mentioned trouble on Solstheim?” he said.

Dreyla slumped where she sat, and nodded. “There’s been a boom in werebear numbers,” she said, grim. “Well, an _explosion_ , really.”

Genos cocked his head. “Werebear?”

Saitama tugged at the bothersome collar of his clothes. “Yeah, like y–” he began, but cut himself off with a gulp. “Uh, like werewolves. But bears. Big, nasty.”

“I … see,” said Genos, intrigued.

Dreyla frowned at her mug, and dragged a nail over a scratch in its surface. “Nobody’s ever seen so many of the damn things,” she said. “They’ve started coming into Raven Rock, and taking people.”

“They’ve … _what_?” said Saitama. Perplexity pulled his brow into a knot, and he twisted to face the Dunmer square-on. “What, you mean like … _abducting_ people? I thought werebears were feral.”

“I thought so, too,” said Dreyla. She cleared her throat, and raised her drink to her lips. “Captain Veleth’s had to bolster the Redoran Guard, to protect the settlement.”

Saitama’s concern ebbed as Dreyla tipped back her ale. He remembered Veleth from his time on Solstheim: the captain was good at his job, and as such should need no help from the Dragonborn. “How are things,” he said, “between you and him?”

Dreyla choked. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her grey skin now a strange shade of mulberry. “F-fine,” she muttered. “Things are fine.”

Saitama frowned at her a moment, then let out a quiet ‘oh’ when he recalled that her relationship with the captain was meant to be a secret.

They talked a spell longer, exchanged stories while the wooden walls rattled and the shafts of light from the windows dimmed. The innkeeper brought a second round of drinks, then a third, before Dreyla finally decided that she ought to return to Solstheim. She bode the newlyweds farewell, and asked that Saitama not wait so long to contact her again.

While Genos saw her out, Saitama stayed seated at their bench. The Nord slumped with his face in his hands, a tired ache throbbing behind his temples. He had not socialised so much in years; he felt exhausted, physically drained from talking.

Mismatched hands on his back drew a soft groan from the Nord. He twisted to find Genos hunched over him, massaging his shoulders and neck. Saitama leaned back against his chest, and sighed.

“I think I drank too much,” he moaned. He had finished Genos’s third round and half of Dreyla’s, an unpleasant buzz in his brain. He tilted his head when soft lips brushed his ear, and one of the blond’s hands dipped down behind his collar.

“Perhaps we should turn in for the night, then,” said Genos. His voice was a gentle purr, level and quiet. Saitama hummed in disapproval. “It is much later than I thought. Do you still feel unwell?”

Saitama realised that his eyes had fallen shut. He opened them with a sharp inhale, willed himself to rise from this sleepy haze. He considered: his eyes stung, though less fierce than when outdoors, head heavy on his shoulders and a hint of nausea in his gut. “A bit.”

Genos nosed his earlobe from behind, and wrapped strong arms around Saitama’s torso. “Then you should rest,” he said. “I would not think less of you for being unable to hold your alcohol. The sun has already set.”

“That’s ’cause it’s winter,” Saitama griped, but with no real vehemence. He knew there was no point in arguing. With another groan, he slid out of Genos’s embrace and gripped the table to haul himself upright. The world tipped when he stood, rocked like the deck of a boat in a storm, and he squared his stance to keep balance. Genos let out a chuckle; he gripped the Nord under the armpits, and helped him step back over the bench.

The innkeeper, a bearded man named Hadring, led the way across the tavern to a large room on the right of the building. Saitama was glad they had paid for the room earlier; with his thoughts so muddled, he doubted himself awake enough to count Septims now.

He made it to the bed under his own power – with Genos hovering behind, ready to catch – then flopped face-first into the straw mattress. The frame creaked beneath him and he inhaled the smell of worn pillows, only able to lounge for half a moment until Genos rolled him onto his back.

Sleep beckoned Saitama deeper as the blond tugged off his husband’s boots. The Nord fought it as best he could, mumbled while Genos climbed onto the bed to hang over him. He peeked through heavy eyelids when the younger man began to undress him, stripped him to the plain tunic and trousers under his fine clothes.

The room was half-lit, by a few scattered candles and whatever beams of moonlight crept through the tiny windows above the bed. The space smelled of fur and people, old pelts and damp straw. Wind whistled through the cracks in the walls, carried with it the sounds of snowfall and owl calls.

When Genos began to kiss a path down Saitama’s throat, the rest of the world fell away.

He reached up to hook a hand around the back of the blond’s neck, played lazily with the hair at his nape. Genos hummed his appreciation, and nuzzled against the hollow between his partner’s collarbones. Saitama let him, alertness returning with every touch. He still felt out-of-sorts, a sensation he could not place, but the mage’s presence and affection soothed him.

Too soon, knees framing Saitama’s hips, Genos sat back. Saitama followed him, propped himself up to chase his partner’s mouth. They kissed slowly, softly, the languid pace of experienced lovers, no urgency or hesitation. Fingers tangled in golden hair, metal digits bunched in the cloth of Saitama’s tunic.

Saitama broke away to breathe. “Guess we’re married now,” he said. The words left him in something between a laugh and a whisper, full of awe and hope.

Genos shuffled where he knelt, and drew up a hand to inspect his new ring. It was a simple band, gold and polished, identical to his husband’s. “I expected I would feel different,” he said.

Saitama frowned. “You don’t?”

Genos met his eye. His own shone clear through the gloom, liquid silver, breathtaking in their hawkish sharpness. “I love you as I did before,” he said. “The ring is only a symbol, but … I still expected it to change something. I thought I would feel … more.”

Lips pursed, Saitama slumped back. Genos was still fully clothed, still sober. Both of these things made the conversation seem strange, somehow. Saitama shook his head. “Are you happy?”

Genos inhaled, a flicker of fright in his gaze. “Of course,” he said, firm.

Saitama leaned in again, and pressed their foreheads together. “Then, it’s fine,” he said. “We already lived like we were married, Genos. The ring … being married … when you think about it, it doesn’t really change anything, does it?”

The mage chewed on his lip. His stare travelled downward, to where Saitama’s hands had settled on his lap. “I suppose not.”

The buzz of alcohol in Saitama’s head began to warp, became a quiet ringing. He smiled in spite of it, happy that Genos understood his tipsy spiel. The Nord then pecked him on the cheek, and sank against his solid chest in a feeble embrace. In the absence of touching, the tiredness had welled up again. All he wanted was to sleep, to have Genos lie him down and tuck him in.

The blond had other things in mind.

Genos gathered Saitama closer where he slouched, and mouthed down his neck again. This time, there was urgency in his grip. “You are so wonderful,” he murmured. He rocked forward, peppered the man with kisses as he lowered him to the mattress.

Saitama let his head fall aside, and – in the movement – blinked back to cold coherence.

Gods, he felt _awful_.

The ringing in his ears grew louder. A wave of nausea passed over him, made him shiver. Genos did not cease his kisses – must have assumed the shudder to be one of pleasure. Saitama squeezed his eyes closed, faced away from the blond’s exploring mouth. His breath came in harsh pants, unrelated to arousal, the mounted animal heads on the walls shimmering as if through fog. He felt hot, weak, _sick_.

“Genos,” he gasped out, able to feel himself tremble against the blond. Genos’s answering moan came muffled against Saitama’s sternum, hair tousled and robes askew. Saitama raised a knee to try and nudge him away, and twisted beneath him as the nausea built. “Genos, wait … _stop_ ….”

With a jolt of muscles, Genos froze.

Saitama’s head swam as the blond sat back, jerked off of him. He saw two points of silver glisten through the haze that had once been a bedroom, heard a distorted voice through the ringing. This did not feel like being drunk. Panic flared in his chest, and he whimpered in fear.

“Saitama…? Saitama, what is it?”

A palm crushed to his clammy forehead, but vanished almost at once. He gasped at the scorching contact, the skin like a firebrand.

“You’re cold,” Genos’s voice pierced the haze. Dimly, Saitama noticed his use of abbreviations. The kid must have been worried, thought his subconscious mind. His conscious mind, however, was too busy fighting down bile to comment on the blond’s imperfect syntax. “Saitama? What do you feel?”

He shivered again, uncontrollably, as the mage felt for his pulse. “I don’t …” he said. “Ugh … s-sick….”

Genos’s weight left the bed. “I will get you some water.”

The rapid _thud_ of footfalls faded before he could process the words, and Saitama found himself alone in the dark. He lay still, paralysed by dread. He had not felt this way before, so frail and helpless, even when he was stripped of his Dragonborn abilities. Each shuddering breath smouldered in his lungs, every twitch made his muscles scream. It _hurt_ , everywhere, a sense of suffocation pressing down on his chest.

He grew vividly aware of his heartbeat, hard and fast against his ribs. He felt trapped in his own body, mind racing while the heavy limbs refused to cooperate.

The nausea peaked, and he flipped onto his side to retch over the side of the bed. Nothing came up but a dry heave, and he choked on air. He dragged himself upright, stood with the hope that walking around might clear his head.

Dizziness.

Agony.

 _Red_.

His knees hit the floor with a sickening _crack_ , but he did not feel the impact. Red flooded his vision, his senses, bones alight and skin aflame with the heat of it. There was no up, no down, no sensations or stimuli through the pain. He tried to yell but heard nothing, felt his throat constrict on empty vowels.

As abruptly at it began, the torture stopped.

Silence fell in Saitama’s mind, absolute and deafening. He trembled where he doubled over on the floor, shaken as his senses returned to him. An odd smell hung in the air, sweet and distracting, like warm honey and meat. Odd … why would anyone cook at this hour? The clouds must also have cleared outside, because the room seemed brighter than before. He swallowed hard, and balked at the dry roughness in his throat.

Something felt _wrong_ – and it took the Nord several seconds to place what it was.

The internal silence was _absolute_.

Saitama’s eyes flew wide, and he grasped the front of his own tunic. There was nought but calm inside him, panic aside, the thundering of his heart gone still.

 _Dead_ still.

He gasped in a breath he did not need, around teeth that felt somehow displaced. “G-Genos!”

The mage was there in an instant, a rough-hewn mug in hand. He froze in the doorway when he saw Saitama on the floor, and tossed the mug aside to throw himself down before his husband.

“Saitama?!” he cried, and gripped his shoulder hard. Genos hooked a finger beneath the Nord’s chin, forced him to look up and expose his face. “What–”

Saitama did not hear him, did not notice him break off in shock when their eyes met. The sweet-honey smell hit him full-force, knocked him dazed, the scent blown into the room with the gust of Genos’s entry. No … that was wrong. The scent _came_ from him. Appetising, dulcet, rich, like spiced wine.

It – _he_ – smelled _good_.

Genos’s words died on his tongue.

The mage knelt in stunned silence before his husband, transfixed. Those eyes he knew so well were changed, soft brown replaced by blazing orange-gold. That stare, always so warm and kind, now burned predatory, stark with surprise. Genos peered into it, unable to tear himself away, and was frightened by the _hunger_ he saw there.

Saitama was not the Saitama he recognised. He was cool to the touch, the heat of his flesh fading even under Genos’s own, his facial features gaunt and pale in the half-light. With difficulty, Genos loosened his grip and sat back.

Saitama smelled different, too. The blond’s sensitive nose had picked up on it the moment he burst into the room – but in his concern, the smell had not registered until now. The Nord’s scent was tainted, soured by something unfamiliar – something that stirred his instincts, and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The beastblood churned within Genos, primal fear and adrenaline, a single word oozing up through his disbelief.

 _Vampire_.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/4PVmCUytHPw)
> 
> **Context notes:**  
>  * **Mara** is the Goddess of Love, patron of the bountiful earth, and source of mortal compassion and understanding. Couples are married by her priests.  
>  * **The Pale** is one of the nine holds (territories) in Skyrim. Its capital is Dawnstar. **Windhelm** is capital of Eastmarch hold, home to Ulfric Stormcloak – leader of the Stormcloak rebellion.  
>  * **Solstheim** is an island between Skyrim and Morrowind, home of the Dunmer (Dark Elves). Many Dunmer refugees made new homes here after the catastrophic eruption of Red Mountain.  
>  * Aslfur references the events of the **Laid to Rest** quest, in which the Dragonborn saves the city of Morthal by ultimately killing a vampire named Morvarth.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	2. Beyond Death

*

 

As he knelt on the cold stone floor, four things flashed through Genos’s mind in quick succession.

The first was the thought that he should shut the door, lest someone walk by and find two of Skyrim’s most hated creatures in a room together.

The second was suspicion of a prank – some awful joke by his husband. Saitama had taken to trying to make him laugh in the month since their engagement, and decided that shock tactics worked better than his terrible jokes. This suspicion died in moments; Genos felt no pulse beneath his love’s cold flesh. No magic or potion he knew of could produce such an effect, the appearance of death while still able to speak and move.

The third was a memory of three days ago, when the couple had passed through Morthal and cleared a nearby vampire lair. While their fangs had been unable to pierce Saitama’s skin, Genos remembered several vampires using their health-draining blood magic on the intruders. The master himself, Morvarth, had attacked Saitama in this way, before Saitama punched a hole through his chest.

The fourth and final thing that occurred to Genos was a fact. Blood magic could potentially infect humans with _sanguinare vampiris_ – a disease that progressed into full-fledged vampirism over the span of three days.

 _Three days_.

Three days since they fought Morvarth, who had used his blood magic on Saitama. Saitama must have contracted the disease then, he realised, and his sickness in the days since was its overlooked development.

By the Divines, this was no prank.

Genos inhaled with difficulty, struggled not to choke on his husband’s strange new scent. It caught in his nostrils like smoke, a sallow imitation of the one he knew and loved. Saitama clung to his forearms, shaken, gaped up at Genos where he hunched on the floor. Thick silence crawled between the newlyweds, broken by the sputter of candles on the dresser and the rattle of loose windowpanes.

Abruptly, Saitama ducked his head in a sigh. Sweat glistened on his scalp, colourless skin like marble. He gave the blond’s forearms a light squeeze, and sat back. His hands slid smooth over Genos’s when he pulled away, made gooseflesh of the non-mechanical wrist.

“I … I think I’m okay,” he said.

Genos dared not blink. “No,” he said, voice low and measured. “No, you are not.”

A furrow cracked Saitama’s brow. He stared at the mage, looked him up and down with burning gold eyes. “I feel all right,” he said, confused. “Is … what’s wrong? Why’re you looking at me like that?”

The silence stretched on, weighty and awkward. Genos’s shoulders sank as he grappled with a response. Did he … not realise?

Words failed the blond – so instead, he staggered upright. He towered over Saitama a moment, stance squared and wide, as one might try to intimidate a predator. When he realised what he was doing, Genos felt a curl of self-disgust. With a mental mantra of _it’s Saitama, not a monster_ , he forced aside his bestial instincts. He marched across the room to the dresser, and seized the metal platter of apples that sat upon its surface. He swiped the fruit away in a curt flick of the wrist, and carried the platter back for Saitama to use as a mirror.

The Nord eyed him with scepticism, but accepted the tray. He rubbed one sleeve over its dull surface, then peered into the cleaned patch.

Genos saw the precise moment when Saitama found his reflection. Those fiery eyes grew huge and round, then narrowed in a squint, and he hunched over the makeshift mirror with lips parted. Between them, Genos caught the glint of white fangs. He swallowed hard.

“Morvarth,” the blond managed. “He … he must have infected you, when we fought him in Hjaalmarch, three days ago. The timing is irrefutable.”

Saitama did not respond at once. Genos saw his throat ripple in a gulp, watched him lower the platter to the pelt-strewn floor and trace its rim with both thumbs. “This is bad, isn’t it.”

It was not a question.

On the table by the door, one of the candles burned out. Its hot-dry stink filled the darkened room, lured Genos from his stupefaction. He sank to squat before Saitama again, the instinctive fear replaced by worry and foreboding. If anyone found out what he had become, it would not matter that Saitama was Dragonborn. People would hunt him down like an animal. They would slay him in the name of Stendarr, curse his ashes and rejoice at his defeat.

Genos hissed out a breath, made fists on the cracked stone. He would not allow that to happen.

“There must be a cure,” he said. “There has to be. Evidently, it is not killing your maker – as Morvarth lies dead, and you….”

Saitama angled his chin over his changed reflection, and tongued one of his new fangs. His expression grew difficult to read, clouded by morbid curiosity. Shadows flickered over the new angles in his face, lithe in the firelight.

Genos shifted where he crouched. With some dismay, he realised that Saitama did not seem too concerned by his transformation. If anything, he seemed inquisitive. “How do you feel?”

The Nord twitched, as if yanked from some deep string of thought. He glanced up from the platter, hands slack on his knees, and Genos suppressed a wince when those scorching eyes bored into his. “I dunno,” he said. “Normal? I don’t feel sick anymore, at least. Guess now we know what was wrong with me.”

Genos sat down, closer to him than before. The tension bled from his posture, and shame swelled to take its place. “I should have realised the symptoms,” he said, bitter. “Your weakness, tiredness, sensitivity to the sun. If I had caught it, I could have cured you before it manifested.”

At that, Saitama scowled. He got to his feet, movements precise, bare feet muffled on the stone. Genos scrambled to rise with him.

“Don’t you dare blame yourself, all right?” said Saitama, sharp with disapproval. Standing changed the play of shadows on his face, highlighted how gaunt its structure had become. “You noticed. We both did, just didn’t peg it was in _sunlight_. I mean, I thought I was just stressed about the wedding.”

Genos managed a small smile, felt the urge to kiss him. Saitama seemed to read his mind; his face softened, and he reached out to weave their fingers together. Genos found his focus drawn to his partner’s grip, digits like ice between his own. Though strange coming from Saitama, Genos was too used to the chill of his own metal limb to be unsettled.

Barely audible, a leaf brushed against the grid-like windows. Saitama whipped his head to face the sound. Intrigued, Genos watched him stare at the moonlit panes. Something told him that the Nord’s ears would not have caught such a soft, quiet sound before. Saitama released his hand, and moved toward the windows.

With a lick of surprise, Genos realised that he had to strain to hear the man’s footsteps. Instead he heard wolves, somewhere distant through the walls of the inn, heard a cough from the main room and the dusty _snap_ of firewood. He watched Saitama stand on tiptoe to peer through the dirty glass, unsure how to feel about the changes to his husband.

For once uncomfortable with silence, Genos recited what he knew.

“Vampires are immune to disease and poison, like werewolves,” he said. Saitama did not respond, though sank down from tiptoe and began to stare about the dingy room. “They are resistant to cold … though I doubt you would notice much change, since your Nord blood already protects you from it. And … as their powers grow, they become more attuned to the shadows. They become more stealthy, even invisible, and to an extent, are able to influence people.”

After a thoughtful pause, Saitama half-turned to face him. “I think I can see better,” he said, and skimmed a hand along the surface of the dresser. “In the dark. Like, I didn’t notice the stain over there, before.”

Genos followed his pointing finger to the largest of the fur rugs, but could not spot any discolouration in the gloom. Even as a werewolf, his own eyesight was not much better than the average human’s. He looked back to his partner, curious to find his expression hesitant.

“And …” said Saitama, “I can smell.”

Genos blinked, stepped closer. Smell was a werewolf’s strongest sense, even outside beast form, and he was intrigued to learn how it compared to a vampire’s. “Smell what?”

When Genos moved within arm’s reach, oblivious, Saitama froze up as his bizarre, delightful scent washed over him.

It made him gasp, made him want to bite … something, _anything_. Rooted to the spot, he settled for his own lip. His lengthened teeth dug into the flesh, foreign and hard as diamond, sharp enough to pierce if he were to apply any more pressure. He breathed deep to study the scent, to learn it enough to describe, and covered his mouth in alarm when he felt himself salivate around the fangs.

“ _You_.”

 _Your_ _blood_.

It smelled like burning wood, like wine and rosemary, like fir trees and autumn leaves and new-fallen snow. It smelled of heat, of life, of passion and lust, campfires and cooked meat and rain. Anticipation wrung his throat dry, while drool drowned his tongue as Genos neared.

In some dark corner of his mind, Saitama wanted to know if the blond tasted as good as he smelled. He caught that thought before it could plant roots, and – with a flare of horror – shoved it aside.

He jerked back, away from Genos, snapped to reality when the backs of his legs struck the dresser. The impact knocked down the stack of books piled there, made the candles gutter and spit. The blond moved as if to close the gap between himself and Saitama – but the Nord flung out his free hand in panic. Genos stopped dead, at a safe distance, distress rolling off him in waves of spice and musk.

Saitama took a second to pant, to claw for control, and covered his face. He heard Genos shift his weight, could _smell_ his unease. “It’s okay,” he managed. His voice rang thin, strained, even to his own ears. “I-I’m okay, I just … I need to get used to it….”

Beyond the black wall of his palms, he sensed Genos go tense. “No.”

Rattled, Saitama peeped out between his fingers.

Genos looked angry. He stood tall, stance broad, fists balled at his sides. The fine, expensive blue robes did little to mask the aggression in his pose. “I do not want you to ‘get used to it’,” he said, so harsh that Saitama feared the inn’s keeper or lone patron would overhear. At his husband’s expression, Genos lowered his voice. “Saitama, this is not you. People will fear you, and that is not … someone must know of a cure. A way that does not involve the Daedra.”

Slowly, Saitama lowered his hands.

He remembered Genos’s trials in curing his own condition, remembered the trickery of Hircine – the Daedric Prince who had bestowed lycanthropy upon mortalkind. Vampirism was likewise the ‘gift’ of a Prince, of the cruel and wicked Molag Bal. While Genos had in the end chosen to keep his curse, and remain a werewolf, he had forsaken Hircine. Saitama understood why he would feel so against making a deal with another Daedra.

Somewhere outside, an owl hooted. A wintery wind streamed in through the cracks in the walls, stirred the flames of the low-burning candles.

All the same … was it not Saitama’s decision to make?

Now that the initial shock had worn off, Saitama took a second to observe his own body. Aside from a few improved senses, and the disturbing lack of a pulse, he failed to notice any changes in himself. He felt neither stronger nor weaker, slower nor faster. Already, he was adjusting to the smell of Genos’s blood; a little more time, and he would be able to ignore it altogether.

What was it Genos had said? Vampires were stealthier than humans? Being able to move more quietly should grant him advantage in a fight, he thought. He could not recall the last time he had been afflicted with disease or poison, but having total immunity to them also sounded like a good thing. And, when his vampiric powers grew – however that happened – he would be able to influence people?

That seemed handy. He imagined scenarios in which such an ability might prove useful: calming bandits in battle, convincing guards to look the other way when his vast strength caused accidents.

The Nord crossed his arms in thought, looked to the bruised apples now littered on the floor. Genos had stayed a werewolf, he mused, even though he knew people would fear him, if they recognised his silver eyes. Maybe Saitama could do the same – stay a vampire – at least for a little while, to learn the ups and downs of his condition for himself.

As he reached to scratch the back of his neck, the edge of his wedding ring caught on Saitama’s ear. Reminded of its presence – and what it symbolised – he frowned. That’s right, he thought, this was supposed to be their special night. What terrible timing.

“Can we think about this in the morning?” he said. He looked up to find Genos’s face blank, astounded, as if he had spoken another language. Saitama gave the bed a hopeful glance.

The blond stared when he made the connection. “Saitama,” he said. Incredulity drew his brow into a scowl, and he shook his head. “Please, be serious. This is important.”

“So’s our wedding night,” said the Nord.

He stepped forward from the dresser, the motion measured and careful, testing his body’s reaction as he moved closer to his husband. The aroma of blood still taunted him, delectable, but he resisted it with a sheer force of will. It – _Genos_ – smelled divine, but Saitama felt no danger of losing control. He felt no urge to taste it, no need to bite as he had earlier. He loved Genos too much to even dream of feeding from him. The thought of feeding _at all_ made his stomach clench in abhorrence, distaste like bile on the roof of his mouth.

Shaking off the thought, Saitama traced one knuckle along the sharp line of the mage’s jaw. “Honest,” he said with a smile, “I feel fine.”

Genos’s grimace deepened, heavy creases between his eyebrows. “ _Saitama_ ,” he said again, almost a groan in his exasperation. “You are not fine. You are very sick, and I am concerned. We can honeymoon some other time.”

Saitama swallowed his budding frustration. “But it’s _our_ _night_ ,” he said. He hooked both arms around Genos’s neck, and bent his knees enough to hang from the taller man’s shoulders. Genos sighed as he supported his weight, silver glare angled off to the wreath of snowberries above the bed. Saitama gave him a light tug. “I wanna enjoy it, just us … no nonsense about vampires or dragons or trolls. I feel good. Promise.”

With palpable reluctance, Genos slid his gaze down to Saitama’s. “You are ridiculous,” he said, and sighed again. “You are the only man alive who could brush off something as serious as becoming a vampire, and continue on as normal.”

The Nord smirked. “You love me.”

“…That, I do.”

Saitama straightened up, and tightened his wrapped arms to pull Genos in for a kiss. Both men winced at the feel of his sharpened teeth, awkward and unsure, but soon adjusted. As they side-stepped across to the bed, tangled in each other’s limbs, Saitama sensed that something was _off_. Genos’s worry seeped into his actions, only meeting kisses halfway, distracted. Saitama picked up the slack to reassure him, though could not help but feel like he had done something wrong.

He undressed Genos to his tunic, as he had him, kept their mouths joined as he lowered the blond to the firm, worn bed. When he made to unbutton Genos’s tunic, however, a metal hand fastened around his wrist – stopped him. Saitama peeled himself off of the mage just enough to cast him a questioning look, which Genos answered with a smile of apology and a shake of the head.

Though disappointed, Saitama did not argue. He lay down beside his husband, curled with his front pressed flush to the mage’s broad back. Genos felt warmer than Saitama remembered, solid and comfortable in his arms.

For a while, Saitama lay and listened to his partner’s heartbeat. It was steady and strong, loud in the darkness of the room, thudding in through Saitama’s ribs where their torsos touched. He had never noticed it before, that he could recall. Now it seemed deafening, without one of his own to compete with it.

He buried his face in the back of Genos’s neck. The smell of his blood, like some rare and precious alcohol, niggled once more at Saitama’s teeth, but he ignored it with ease. Being a vampire did not seem so hard, he thought.

He did not know how much time passed before sleep embraced him – but just as he wavered into unconsciousness, he felt Genos shift in his arms. The blond rolled over, gathered him up in a tight hug, one cheek crushed to Saitama’s pectorals.

The Nord blinked awake. The last candles had burned out, but he could still see the room in perfect clarity. He felt stress in the iron grip that trapped him, fear. “What’s wrong…?”

Genos said nothing at first, but nuzzled deeper into his sternum. “Forgive me.”

Saitama shifted a leg to lie atop Genos’s, slid up one hand to brush hair off his love’s young face. “For what?”

A swallow, audible. “I hate the silence,” he said. “You are here, but … you feel like a corpse against me. I … I cannot hear you….”

It took Saitama a second to grasp what he meant – to realise that Genos’s ear rested over his stopped heart. Struck by guilt, he curled closer and pressed his mouth to the blond’s forehead. “I’m alive,” he murmured. “I’m okay. I love you.”

Genos shook his head against him, like a scared child. In a way, Saitama supposed he was.

The guilt grew. “We’ll find a cure in the morning, ’kay?” he said. “Anyone who can help’s probably in bed too right now. _I’m fine_ , I promise. Just … try to get some sleep.”

After a pause, fraught and apologetic, Genos squeezed him tighter. “I love you, always.”

The Nord smiled, and closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

Saitama did not dream that night.

He awoke to an empty bed and a dry mouth, cuddling a ragged pillow in place of his husband. Morning light streamed in through the stripe of windows above the bed, the music of larks and pheasants filtered through the walls. Saitama sat up, disoriented to find himself alone.

His leather armour and boots lay folded on the table by the door, beside his and Genos’s crumpled wedding clothes. His old rucksack sat slumped on the floor beneath, sewn with patches from wear. Saitama rubbed his eyes and levered himself to his feet, changed into his travel gear, and headed out into the main room of the inn.

He spotted Genos at once, garbed in his familiar furs at the counter, deep in hushed conversation with Hadring, the innkeeper. The bearded old Nord wore an expression somewhere between grave and fascinated, and Saitama did not have to guess why. Genos straightened when he noticed his husband in the doorway, and crossed to him at a swift jog.

“The court wizard of Morthal,” said Genos, before Saitama could even open his mouth. “If the rumours are true, he can help you.”

Saitama smirked. “Morning to you, too.”

Genos blinked, then relaxed. His hair was a mess, bedraggled from neglect, furs askew on his shoulders. Saitama helped tidy him up, and granted him a ‘good morning’ peck on the mouth. The blond’s lips tasted sweet, of apples and fresh pastry. He must have been awake a while, and already eaten.

“So,” Saitama said fondly, cradling Genos’s mismatched hands in his own. “Back to Morthal?”

Aside from the two of them and Hadring, the Nightgate Inn was empty. The fire pit burned on, low but still alight, dimming the space with smoke. The tables had been restocked overnight, with round ale bottles and wooden plates of bread. Still sluggish from sleep, Saitama wandered to the closest bench and sat down. Genos followed suit, swift with restless energy.

“Yes,” he said. “The Redguard, Falion. We saw him on our last visit. Rumour claims he has studied all manner of the undead – vampires, Draugr … but not just how to kill them. He may know of a way to cure you.”

Saitama sniffed, and plucked at a claw-shaped rip in the belt of his leathers. “I dunno,” he said, muted. “I was thinking I might, y’know … stick with it a while. See what it’s like.”

Genos looked at him as if he had grown a fifth limb.

Saitama felt a flash of embarrassment – though, in a bizarre sensation, his cheeks did not heat up. He supposed the lack of a beating heart meant there was no danger of blood rushing to his face. “C’mon, man,” he said. “Aren’t you even a tiny bit curious? Maybe I can use magic now – most vamps can, right?”

The blond made a strange noise, a tumble of words caught in a groan, and he drummed his mechanical fingers on the tabletop. “At least let us speak with Falion, to learn what is required,” he said. “Then we can begin the process as soon as you are ready.”

With a roll of the eyes, Saitama gave in. “Sounds fair.”

“Would you like breakfast?”

The question caught him off-guard, asked the instant the agreement left his lips. Saitama gave himself a mental once-over, and was puzzled by what he realised. “I’m … not hungry.”

Genos sprang to his feet. “Good,” he said. “Then we can leave right away.”

He seized Saitama’s wrist before the older man could protest, and dragged him to his feet and into a march across the inn. Saitama almost tripped on a rug in his haste to keep up, headed for the door that led out to The Pale.

He almost wanted to be offended by Genos’s impatience to ‘fix’ him, but he knew the sentiment was born of concern. Genos did not like Saitama being any less than himself – and in _his_ eyes, Saitama was Dragonborn first. Genos perceived his vampirism as a weakness, an illness, something that painted a target on his back in lurid rainbow colours.

The moment he stepped outside, the Nord understood why.

The sunlight _burned_ , blinding, tore like flames into his exposed head and arms, and Saitama recoiled with a yelp. It scorched his vision and he scrambled to shield himself, bumped into Genos in his fright. He felt his cold blood boil as the startled mage steadied him, veins alight, convinced that his skin had caught fire.

The pain soon dulled, eased as he adjusted, but did not subside altogether. His whole body ached as if scalded, sensitive and raw. He clutched fistfuls of Genos’s sleeves for support, weak-kneed where he stood on the porch of the inn, eyes clamped shut to block out the sun. There was a shuffle of movement, his hands yanked away, before Genos’s outer cloak settled around his shoulders. He cracked open his eyes, and found the blond’s brow knit as he tugged up the hood to cover Saitama’s head.

The Nord felt better at once, veiled by the shadows of his clothes. “I didn’t expect that,” he said, sheepish.

He swore he heard the grinding of teeth as Genos bit back an ‘I told you so’.

Mist clung to the surface of the lake, a morning haze draped around the basin of tree-dotted mountains. In a squint, Saitama looked to the heavens. He saw hawks drifting overhead, points of black against wispy clouds and a slate-blue sky. Seeing no-one around, he drew in a deep breath – air that tasted of snow and elk and ice – and Shouted.

“ _Kahodnir!_ ”

A rush of blue burst outward from his Voice, a bubble of power with flecks of light like snowflakes. His call shimmered in the air, ethereal, carried far to the heavens, then faded away. Saitama adjusted Genos’s cloak – too wide for his smaller shoulders – while he waited. Troubled by the lingering pain, he pondered how much merit his partner’s warnings held.

From beyond the rocky valley, a roar split the whine of wind. Over the mountains to the east, across the lake, a huge, bronze-orange dragon arced into view. Saitama readied his pack, resigned as Genos likewise faced the fast-approaching reptile.

Kahodnir landed hard, a graceless descent on knuckled wings that left deep gouges in the icy earth. The dragon lowered its horned head to address Saitama, bowed to him, as a noble dog might greet its master.

“Hail, _thuri_ ,” it rumbled. “How may I serve you?”

Saitama gripped the spines of its jaw, and swung up to ride on its thick nape. Kahodnir twisted to balance him, expectant. Genos climbed to sit behind his husband, wrapped both arms secure around his waist. “Just a quick flight,” said the Nord.

The dragon waited until its passengers were settled, then propelled itself skyward in a flurry of snow. It rose until the lake shrank to the size of a Septim, the pier a sliver of brown, and circled to glide over the vale of fog-cloaked pines.

The snow melted into grassland to the south, split by a winding river that snaked close to the city of Whiterun. The mist hugged the tall walls of Dragonsreach palace, painted the range beyond a tired shade of grey. Saitama steered Kahodnir west, over a lone Dwarven tower and a giant’s campsite. They soared across a jagged peak, beyond a standing stone and into Hjaalmarch hold.

As the swamps of Morthal bloomed through the mist, and Kahodnir descended through the clouds, Saitama felt a whisper of unease. He recalled the demands that Hircine had made of Genos, when the mage sought to cure his lycanthropy. Molag Bal, the Lord of domination and enslavement, made Hircine seem like a playful maid in comparison. Saitama dreaded to think what such a cruel Prince would ask of him, if this Falion character could not help.

Kahodnir swooped down, to the banks of the river behind the settlement, and landed with more finesse than the first time. Brownish weeds grew scattered about the hoarfrost, bare trees and rime-speckled rocks. The dragon nestled to the sloped ground, lay flat to allow its passengers to disembark.

Saitama slid down first, careful not to snag his loaned cloak on the spines. He peered over the hill ahead as Genos dismounted, just able to see the roofs of houses over the rise. Saitama sent his dragon on its way with a grateful pat, then led Genos up over the hill and into Morthal.

Nothing had changed since their visit three days ago. The settlement was built around the river, with small fishing boats moored to bridges and clumps of ice adrift on the water. The Jarl’s longhouse sat atop a slight incline, overlooking the village. Scant few people wandered the walkways, lumber or baskets in hand, early risers. At first glance, the town appeared almost deserted.

Saitama’s nose told another story.

The village pulsed with life. He smelled it all, the hot bodies and pumping lifeblood, everywhere. It took him a moment to adapt, to exhale the sudden thirst and shake himself sober. In all honesty, it fascinated him; to a point, he could tell apart individual scents. Nord, Imperial, Redguard … each race sported its own odour, and each person’s was unique in its own way. None of them smelled quite as sweet as Genos did – whether because of his beastblood, his _Breton_ blood, or just the fact of their romantic bond, Saitama did not know.

The travellers passed two youngsters, a boy and a girl, outside the thaumaturgist’s hut. Saitama felt relieved to learn that children did not smell appetising at all. A brief chat with them – and a piece of gold – revealed the location of Falion’s home. The newlyweds doubled back along the flimsy bridges, to the house at the edge of town.

As they climbed the steps to the door, Genos in the lead, Saitama tapped the blond between the shoulder blades. “Just …” he said, “don’t threaten the guy, okay?”

Genos gave him a look as if to ask why Saitama thought he would do such a thing, but held his tongue. He was not known for keeping a level head, where Saitama was involved.

Despite the early hour, Falion’s home was unlocked. Its single room flickered in warm firelight, hearth ablaze and crackling, shelves stocked with soul gems and potions. Rabbits and herbs dangled strung from the ceiling, floor cluttered with buckets and barrels. The resident Redguard stood with his blue-robed back to the entrance, hunched over an enchanting table in the far corner.

Saitama made sure to make noise when he closed the door behind himself and Genos. Falion gave a start and straightened up, turned with a puzzled expression. He gave his guests a quick once-over, and smiled.

“Ah, I remember you,” he said. “You’re the ones who took care of our vampire problem. What can I do for you?”

The newlyweds exchanged a careful glance. Genos stepped forward in a rustle of furs, and Falion approached to meet him halfway across the room. Saitama stayed where he was, just inside the door, twisting his ring around his finger.

“About that,” said Genos, guarded. “It seems there was a small … complication, when we cleared the lair.”

Falion nodded, urging the blond to go on. Genos twisted in place to look back at Saitama, who dropped his hood. Again, the Nord felt that strange bloodless flush as he was inspected. Falion stepped around his fellow mage, and hummed as he examined Saitama more closely. “Oh – oh, I _see_.”

Saitama looked away, into the hearth. A cooking pot bubbled before it, the aroma of apple-cabbage stew not quite enough to mask that of live flesh. “Just tell me you know how to get rid of it,” he muttered.

The Redguard folded his arms. His dark skin seemed to shimmer in the firelight, features shrewd and wise. With a steadying breath, Saitama marched forward to plant himself at Genos’s side. The blond linked their hands for support, gave his cold fingers a kind squeeze.

“I know many things,” said Falion. “I have studied things beyond the reach of most humans, travelled the Oblivion planes, seen things one should not see. I have met Daedra and Dwemer, and everything in-between.”

“And?” Genos pressed.

Falion cocked his head. “It requires a filled black soul gem,” he said, and met Saitama’s wary gaze. “You will need to kill someone, and capture their soul.”

The Nord wrinkled his nose, but stifled his revulsion. “O-okay.”

Trapping souls, even those of lesser creatures, had always been a tricky subject for Saitama. Aside from his vast strength, it was the main reason he chose not to use enchanted weapons or armour. Such objects used magical energy, and were fuelled by filled soul gems. Sentient, humanoid souls were the most powerful – and therefore could only be captured in the most powerful type of gem: black.

Trapping human souls, however, was viewed as a crime in much of Skyrim – even in the College of Winterhold, whose practices embraced Necromancy. The captured black soul remained conscious, tortured and unable to die. Once used, they were then sent to eternal purgatory in some twisted plane of Oblivion. Saitama would not wish such a fate on anyone, but….

It was necessary, should he choose to become human again.

He thought through their options. Even for this, he would never kill an innocent. They could always search for a Dremora, he thought, a demonic being _just_ human enough to carry a black soul. That would avoid the moral dilemma. Dremora were not easy to summon into this world, however, and he felt Genos would not care to spend time looking for a skilled enough conjurer. It would have to be a mortal, then; man, mer, or beastfolk. No-one would miss or mourn a bandit, or a thug, he thought – or perhaps a member of the Silver Hand, if Genos was feeling particularly vindictive.

The mage in question dug through his furs with his free hand, while Saitama pondered, a spark in his pale eyes. From some inner pocket, he produced a palm-sized crystal. It was dull and dark, cracked, clouded with age, with a purplish sheen like the plumage of a magpie.

A black soul gem. Saitama peered at it. Genos likely had it to practice his Enchanting magic, though the thing looked empty. It would have glowed a paler shade of purple if full, he knew.

The mage held the dull crystal loose in his mechanical palm, then looked to his partner. “I can trap the souls of enemies with my bound bow,” he said. “It should not take long to fill the gem.”

Falion shifted his weight. “When you have done so,” he said, “return to me, and I will perform the ritual. I will return life to your dead body, Dragonborn.”

Saitama felt Genos stiffen beside him, still at-odds with the thought of his lover being undead. The Nord reached out to close Genos’s metal fingers around the gem. “Happy, now?” he said, under his breath.

Something downcast crossed Genos’s face, hollow in the firelight. “Not quite yet.”

They thanked Falion for his council, and headed back out into Morthal.

The air was crisp and cool, pungent with the stench of the nearby marsh. Saitama drew up his hood, buried himself as deep as possible in his loaned cloak. He wondered if Genos would be okay without it, though knew that the layers of furs must have given him adequate protection. Knowing Genos, though, he would not complain either way.

“There’s a place not too far from here,” said the Nord, as they descended the steps to the waterside. “Southwest a bit, Robber’s Gorge. Bandits like to hide out there. We could snag one of their souls … maybe pick up a bounty from the Jarl, while we’re at it.”

Genos nodded once, continued to stride as they reached flat ground. He moved with purpose, and Saitama felt a stab of irritation at the sight of his broad back. The Nord reached out and grabbed a fistful of his furs, yanked the blond to a dead halt in the slush. Genos, garb pulled taut across his chest, cast him a sidelong look, one of confusion and alarm.

Saitama shook his head. “What’s going on, Genos?” he said, unable to keep the dread from his tone. “Why’re you so … _pushy_ , on this? What’ve you got against vampires?”

Hair tousled in the midwinter breeze, Genos turned to face him. “Nothing,” he said.

The word struck with less force than Saitama imagined, almost soothing in its lack of heat. He lowered his hand. He had expected a denial, a ‘not now’ grunt, maybe another tale of woe from his partner’s past. Instead, he watched in growing shame as Genos ducked his head.

“I just …” said the blond. He licked his lips, glanced aside to check that the busy villagers were out of earshot. “This is not who you are, Saitama. You are the strongest person alive, so you should _be alive_. I do not want you to … to be harmed, or hated, because you are weakened like this.”

Saitama’s shoulders sank. “Genos….”

“I am sorry,” the mage spoke over him. He took a quick breath, shrugged into a tall stance, as if to clear the air between them. The corners of his mouth twitched with disappointment, directed at nothing in particular. “You were correct, last night. It was supposed to be special, but I could not stop worrying about you. I still cannot. I want to cure you so that we can resume our life, and be happy.”

A dog barked across the village, drowned the scuff of Saitama’s boot as he stepped out to capture Genos in a kiss. He gathered handfuls of fur and belts, felt Genos duck a fraction to close the difference in their heights. Soft golden hair tickled at his brow and scalp, stiff with frost, plush lips smooth and hot against his own, that sharp jaw firm and perfect under his palm.

When he pulled away, Saitama let himself smile at how the blond’s eyes stayed closed. “You don’t have to worry about me,” he said, voice tender and low. “I’m all right. Hey … maybe being a little weaker will make fights more challenging, huh?”

Genos’s eyes snapped open, in a glare that – quite clearly – told Saitama he had said the wrong thing.

Saitama chuckled. “I’m _kidding_ … sort of,” he said. He grinned wider, and gave the blond a light pat on the cheek. With a flourish in every step, he swept around Genos and strolled along the dock toward the longhouse. “I’ve got this, man. Trust me.”

Where he stood at the waterside, Genos pinched the bridge of his nose. He _did_ trust Saitama, with his life. The same, however, could not be said of the sharp new protrusions in his husband’s smile. With the sigh of a martyr, he stowed the soul gem away and started in pursuit of his partner.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/2UeA9Nus9Eg)
> 
> **Context notes:**  
>  * **Molag Bal** (also known as the Schemer Prince, Harvester of Souls, and the Father of Coldharbour) is the Daedric Prince of domination and enslavement. He created vampirism, and revels in the misery of mortals.  
>  * **Court wizards** are employed by the Jarls (leaders) of each major city in Skyrim, to advise them on matters of magic.  
>  * **Redguards** are natives of Hammerfell, a desert province to the southwest of Skyrim.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	3. Hard Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to past readers - I was unhappy with the original length of chapter 3, so I split it in two. Nothing new has been added, except an extra piece of music at the end!

*

 

Grey cloud muffled the skies of Hjaalmarch, wet and loud with heavy drizzle. Hawk cries carried over the rocky marshland, pierced the sounds of roaming elk and sabre cats and mammoths. An old stone bridge spanned the Hjaal River, the hiss of rain on its cobbles like an endless chord of crickets. The stream beneath sloshed against wet banks, flavoured the air with moss and damp.

Saitama moved with purpose, testing his supernatural new stealth as he crossed the bridge at a crouch. It fascinated him, how soft his footsteps fell, inaudible above the rain. Genos crept in his wake with conjured bow drawn, an ethereal arrow primed and ready to fly. He and Saitama both could smell the bandits across the bridge, the stink of unwashed, the smoke of bonfires curling above the canyon. A raised walkway stretched between two outcrops of rock ahead, fortified watchtowers at the mouth of Robber’s Gorge.

Sneakiness would be key, Saitama had insisted. They were here only for a single soul, no need to wipe out the entire campsite. If they killed the leader, he said, maybe the other bandits would disperse. If not, some other traveller would no doubt come to claim the gold offered for their heads.

Genos saw nothing wrong with clearing out the camp himself. While he did not need the reward, moneyed as he was, the people who haunted this place were criminals. They were murderers and thieves, and Skyrim would be better-off without them. No-one would grieve for them. But Saitama had his honour, and Genos respected that. Saitama’s gift made him humble. He would not kill without good reason – indeed, only raised a hand against sentient life when there was no other choice.

At the end of the bridge, they slowed to a stop. Movement, high on the walkway; a marauder, female, longbow strapped to her back. The explorers watched her cross, watched her peer out off the tower for a moment before retracing her steps on patrol.

“I’ve been through here before,” said Saitama, voice low as rain dripped from his nose and hood. “There’s a shack, about in the middle of camp, fortified. The leaders like to hang out there.”

Genos nodded, hair and furs plastered flat, not taking his eyes off the bandit. Thunder rumbled in the distance, rolled through the valley like the wail of dragons. They waited until the marauder had disappeared over the watchtower, then started forward again.

The cobbled road cut through the gorge, under the walkway. Genos spotted two traps, high in the walls, rigged to drop boulders on any who passed beneath. Saitama led the way, avoided the lookouts, boots noiseless on the wet earth. With skilful quiet, Genos cast a muffle spell on himself to match his husband’s stealth. Saitama marvelled at this; Genos needed _magic_ to soften his movements, though could still be heard. He, on the other hand, made less noise without effort.

Perhaps there was something to this vampire thing, after all.

A dirt path branched off from the road, up above the ravine. Spiked barricades barred the slope, mud on the ground and archery targets ahead. Up the trail, to the right, a lone gate cleaved the lumber wall that fenced the encampment. Saitama nudged open the unlocked gate, and led the way inside.

Makeshift tents shielded a handful of empty bedrolls from the rain. Steam and heat billowed from the closest campfire, still aflame despite the shower, spitting up sparks and embers in _crack_ s of kindling. A handful of bandits wandered the hideout, drenched and grumpy, but most took refuge in the largest, sturdiest tent. Drunken songs rose from under the marquee, laughter and foul-mouthed taunts as they waited out the storm.

Saitama and Genos slipped by, undetected, scaled a plank ramp onto higher ground. More tents stood between the intruders and a wooden hut, another rickety watchtower to the right. Genos itched to take aim at the Orc stationed upon it, afraid he would turn and spot them any second. Saitama instead tapped the blond’s wrist and pointed to the shack, one eyebrow raised. A small smile played on his face, as if he were enjoying himself in the sneaky approach.

Genos focused, and took point.

He edged closer to the shed, glanced at the battered training dummy posted outside. A dagger protruded from its head, buried in the bucket of its helmet. Genos followed his nose and sharp hearing, crept through the empty doorframe to pinpoint the bandit he sensed within.

The leader hunched over a dresser in the rear of the shack. She stood clad in carved Nordic armour, oblivious to the intruders’ presence. Her exposed skin shone covered in scars, the grizzled face of a killer. Genos fell still, steadied himself, and took aim.

He remembered Saitama’s teachings about mercy, about compassion and kindness toward enemies. While Genos did not believe that this crook deserved mercy – the Jarl of Morthal had issued a bounty for her head, after all – the mage had no desire to make her suffer. He would grant her a quick death.

He breathed a prayer to Kynareth, and let his arrow fly.

Saitama smelled the blood before the bandit hit the shack floor.

It assaulted his senses, burned them raw. The scent was stronger when spilled, fiercer and more vivid, and he wheeled way, sickened by the flare of _fire_ in his throat. The sudden, _piercing_ hunger shocked him – but he fought it down, jaw clamped shut. He focused on the feel of the rain on his clothes, the moisture in the air. He heard the rush of energy, like a lightning crack, as the blond’s magic took effect – heard the surge as the chief’s soul was sucked into the gem in Genos’s pocket.

Thanks to the thunderstorm, the sound of the spell went unnoticed by the other bandits. The chief’s gurgled yell as the arrow pierced her neck, however, did not.

The marauder on the watchtower seized her bow before Saitama could realise he had stopped breathing. “Over here!” she screamed.

Genos struck her down with a second arrow, but the damage was done. Chaos erupted, the entire camp stirred into a confused rage as the intruders turned tail and fled.

Genos raced ahead, Saitama like a shadow behind him, back out of the shack and across the mud-slicked earth to the watchtower. They flew up its ramps and vaulted the barrier, dropped down onto the road in a frantic dash for the bridge. Yells and bolts of magic chased after them, arrows and spikes of ice streaking by their heads. Saitama Shouted to deflect the worst of them, those he missed instead caught by Genos’s shield-like Ward spell.

Kahodnir lay in wait a short distance from the gorge, flat to the grass, rainwater rolling off its hide. The dragon raised itself up when its master neared, bared razor fangs at the pursuing raiders. Saitama leaped to mount his steed’s scaled neck, caught Genos mid-jump as Kahodnir took off the instant he was seated. He hauled Genos safely up behind himself, the bandits knocked prone in the gust of mighty wings.

Carried high above the gorge, Saitama whistled where he gripped the row of horns. If his heart were not motionless, he felt sure it would be hammering. In this moment, he recognised the lack of air in his chest; a hard gasp, and he laughed from nerves.

As they climbed through the clouds, Saitama felt a flash of pride. Resisting blood was _easy_ , he thought.

“You know,” he called, over the roar of wind. Genos squeezed him about the middle, chin pressed to the Nord’s neck to listen. “This vampire thing is actually pretty great.”

Genos’s jaw knocked against his ear. “ _What_?”

Kahodnir soared in a great arc, circled around to face the frigid marsh of Morthal. Much of the morning mist had cleared from the horizon, though still hung in heavy clouds over the swamp. “Just saying,” said Saitama, gaze fixed forward.

He heard no response from Genos – though felt the hot, critical stare scorching his cheek for the length of the journey.

For the second time that day, Kahodnir set them down on the foggy hoarfrost outside Morthal. Unsure what to expect from Falion’s ritual – or even if he wanted to go through with it just yet – Saitama dismissed the dragon. Once the heavens over Whiterun had swallowed his winged steed, he turned to his husband.

“I really don’t know what to tell you, Genos,” he said, and hooked a hand around his sodden nape. The blond wore his signature frown, lips parted and shoulders slack. “I feel great. I like the sneaky thing, and seeing in the dark is cool. Being immune to disease is nice, too – you know that for yourself. I think I’m handling the downsides pretty well, given everything.”

“You think so, do you?” said Genos, guarded. It did not sound like a question.

“Yeah,” said Saitama. He made a broad motion, swept out both arms in an open shrug. Water droplets flew from his fingers. The gesture was directed neither at the marsh nor the ragged-roofed houses of Morthal, aimless. “The bandit chief? Her blood hardly affected me. I mean, it smelled _good_ – but I’ve not lost my mind and bitten anyone yet. And, being in sunlight’s not so bad. It hurts at first, but I manage.”

Genos folded his thick arms. For the first time, Saitama took notice of the veins there. The soft blue lines wove across his flesh, an attractive contrast to the off-gold metal of his prosthetic limb, glossy with rain. “For now,” he said, tone stern. “Saitama, this is still the first stage of vampirism. The longer you stay this way, and go without feeding, the worse it will get.”

Saitama deflated. “I guess,” he said. “You’re probably right.”

Genos’s face softened. He stepped forward in a creak of snow, reached out – hesitated – and laid his left hand on Saitama’s cold cheek. The Nord nuzzled into it, appreciated the smell of oil and gears and Dwarven metal.

“I just could not stand to see you hurt,” said the blond, nose inches from his partner’s. “Be it physically, or because some new instinct in you drives you to harm someone. You would never forgive yourself.”

Saitama buried his nose in Genos’s palm, inhaled long and slow. He swore he felt his dead heart flutter, affection fanning through his insides. “Yeah,” he said. The contact was comforting, no sweet-smelling temptation in this artificial part of his lover. “Thanks for … y’know.”

_Always looking out for me._

Genos smiled.

With a light kiss to the steel-smooth palm, Saitama pulled back and started toward town. The newlyweds walked side-by-side, over the hill of the longhouse, knuckles brushing as they climbed the steps to Falion’s home. They ducked under the extended roof, took shelter from the rain.

The door was locked.

Saitama paused, one hand splayed on the unmoving wood. He pushed on it again, just to be sure, and scowled when he felt splinters crack under his fingers. With a knotted brow, he glanced back at Genos. The blond did not look pleased.

“Maybe he went to get new potion ingredients?” said Saitama.

Genos stepped back to sweep the town with a piercing gaze. He marched off to interrogate the first passerby he saw – a guard on patrol – leaving Saitama awkward on the spot. A quick grilling of the guard revealed that Falion had left Morthal this morning. He departed not long after their visit, called to investigate rumours of vampires on the other side of the hold. When Genos passed on this news, disapproval like venom in his words, the Nord sidled back down the steps and sank to crouch on the dock.

“Guess we’ll just have to wait, then,” he said. With a sigh, Genos conceded; he sat down on the steps behind his husband, under the sheltered roof, and stretched his long legs.

Ice-water lapped at Saitama’s boots, dragonflies skating over the shallows. With no clue to when Falion would return, the Nord passed the time in his thoughts. He studied the rime-flecked trees, watched villagers go about their business, listened to the hammering rain and _crunch_ of shoes on snow-piled steps. He closed his eyes and let himself drift, wondered if it was worth coming back another day to see about this cure.

Genos was right, he knew. The hunger, while manageable now, could only get worse if he ignored it.

Doing so was not as hard as he first expected. Most vampires that he had encountered in his travels had been frenzied, feral, desperate for blood. He could understand why: the smell of it hung everywhere, trailed where people had passed, ribbons of some heavenly perfume. When the bandit chief’s was exposed, the open air only sweetened its scent.

It _did_ make him thirsty, in the same way a fine steak or rabbit haunch used to rouse his hunger, but he could not see himself losing control. He could not foresee caving to instinct, taking a chunk out of the first person unlucky enough to cross his path.

After a while, Genos stood. He left Saitama’s side with a warm peck on the forehead, and strode off to see if the Jarl needed magical aid in the absence of her court wizard. Saitama smiled at his retreating back, proud of how much the blond had matured since they first met.

Hours passed, with Saitama left alone to his thoughts.

The benefits of vampirism, so far, outweighed the drawbacks. The cloak helped protect him from sunlight, and he enjoyed the stealth bonus and resistance to disease. The cold had never much bothered him, but now he could not feel it at all. The downsides he had thus far experienced were tiny in comparison. Saitama was curious to stay a vampire a while longer – but he understood his partner’s concerns.

The hunger _would_ get worse. Genos was right: he would never forgive himself if he gave in and attacked someone.

Saitama shivered at the thought, and swung one foot over the water. His rippling reflection stared back up at him, eyes aglow and veins prominent, expression grave. Was he even capable of that … of attacking a stranger, because ‘instinct’ told him so? The ghost of a frown crossed his face, and Saitama slid a hand under his cloak to press on his belly. A dull ache had settled in his stomach, faint but _there_. Idly, he wondered if regular food would help – but the very thought of eating made him nauseous. Not even the juiciest, most succulent venison joint he could imagine piqued his appetite.

The sun climbed higher behind the pregnant clouds, then began to sink again, air damp and bitter. Saitama got to his feet once noon had passed, stretched his legs in a quick stroll around Falion’s house. He lost track of time, tired of counting needles on the closest pine tree. He took to skipping pebbles across the stream, and had made a decent dent in the opposite bank when the scent of a new body met his nose.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said a voice, quick and pleased. Saitama turned to find a semi-familiar man, a Nord courier, dressed in farm clothes and a drooping hat. “You’re a hard man to track down. Got something I’m supposed to deliver – your hands, only.”

Caught off-guard, Saitama dropped his fistful of stones and wiped his palms. “Okay.”

From his pocket, the courier produced a folded sheaf of paper and a drawstring purse. “I’ve got this letter from Solstheim, and a bit of gold,” he said. “From Adril Arano, second councillor of Raven Rock. Something about your … ah, inheritance. Sorry for your loss.”

Confusion growing, Saitama accepted the delivery. He stood rooted while the courier wished him farewell and strolled away. Stunned, the Nord looked up to spot Genos emerging from the Jarl’s longhouse. He saw the blond’s brow ripple at the expression on Saitama’s face, watched him descend the steps and approach his husband across the dock. The purse felt heavy in his hand, despite its small size, the letter made from stiff parchment that smelled of ash and spice. The paper darkened where the rain hit it, fluttered and twitched with every drop.

Genos sped up as he neared. When he reached Saitama, he cupped both hands atop the Nord’s paralysed ones and steered him under the sheltered roof. Concern warred in his silvery stare, pointed and urgent.

“What is it?” he said.

Saitama lowered his gaze to the letter. With one stiff thumb, he flipped it open at the fold. A header of official titles met his squint, penned in neat cursive writing. He remembered the sender, Arano, the stern Dunmer whom he had come to trust in his stay on Solstheim. With bated breath, Saitama speed-read the opening formalities to the body of the letter. Genos circled around him, stood behind the Nord to read over his shoulder.

_It is with deepest remorse that I write to inform you of Dreyla Alor’s death. Her father, Fethis, asked that I send to you the enclosed amount of one hundred gold pieces. Due to your service to the settlement of Raven Rock, and to House Redoran, Councillor Morvayn saw fit to not subject this amount to taxation._

Saitama licked his dry lips, an unpleasant tightness in his chest. Dreyla … was dead? His thoughts flashed back to the wedding, not twenty-four hours ago. He felt the echo of a flagon in his hand, remembered toasting with Dreyla and Genos in the inn after their other guests had left. He re-read her name, thrice over, convinced that he was hallucinating.

The letter continued, in a more personal tone.

_Even with our history, Saitama, it is difficult for me to ask of your help. There is a matter of great importance that I wish to discuss with you, too sensitive to outline here. It is tied to Dreyla’s passing. I would humbly request that you come to Solstheim, as soon as you are able, that we may speak in person._

_Yours with faith_ –

Saitama swallowed hard, feeling somehow hollow. He folded the crisp parchment over, coin purse still limp in his other hand. He looked to Genos.

“We’re going,” he said.

With clear reluctance, Genos disagreed. “We have the soul gem,” he said, over the hiss of rain beyond their shelter. “Falion … he could be back at any moment. We are ready, and should await his return.”

“That could take _weeks_ ,” said Saitama. He stuffed the wet letter into his rucksack, and paused to glare at the coin purse. He did not want the Alors’ money. Gold was tough to come by on Solstheim, and they had sent him _so much_. Guilt gnawed at his insides, spiny and hot. He shoved the purse deep into his pack, out-of-mind. “I’m not wasting any more time here, Genos. We can get to and from Solstheim in under a day.”

“But–”

“Don’t argue.”

Genos held his tongue. He instead balled his fists at his sides, and hung his head. “Will we use Kahodnir?” he said.

Saitama stepped off the dock, onto the icy floes behind Falion’s house. Dead tree branches lay strewn across the frozen water, mist crawling thick between the trees of the marsh. Saitama cut a path over the ice, waded across where the river bent around and onto the frosted banks of the swamp. While he may now have total immunity to the cold, Genos did not. The mage took a running leap across the stream to avoid wetting his furs, and stumbled when his boots caught the patchy grass.

“Solstheim’s pretty small,” said Saitama, stride unbroken. Water streamed from his leathers and clothes, ignored. “People’ll panic if we ride in on the back of a dragon. We’ll fly to Windhelm, then catch a boat.”

The ground sloped upwards, morphed into wooded terrain with a thinner mantle of snow. Once a fair distance from Morthal, Saitama threw back his head and called for his winged friend.

Kahodnir made no complaints about being summoned three times in one day. The dragon carried its passengers up through the haze, until the marsh faded behind a veil of white. Saitama leaned over the dragon’s head; he could just make out the river, and used its curve to orient Kahodnir east. The splatter of rain in his face made navigation difficult, masked the frozen forests and mountains in a uniform cloak of smog. They flew east, rock formations blurred together by the fog, passed Dwemer and Nordic ruins and over a mining settlement far below.

The sky darkened, faded through midwinter lilacs and reds and greys. The rain stopped, replaced by a biting wind that whipped at Saitama’s hood. He yanked it down, glared at the vast Sea of Ghosts to the North.

He wondered how Dreyla had died. Part of him wondered if she had been attacked by Reavers – Solstheim bandits – on her journey home from the wedding. He shoved that thought aside as soon as it bloomed; he felt guilty enough already, her father’s money burning a hole in his rucksack.

Past more ruins and forts, and another dragon’s nesting ground high in the jagged mountains, Kahodnir swooped low over the snakelike range. Saitama traced where the sea wove inland, formed a wide river that cut through Eastmarch hold. There, on the water, around a steep cliff, he spied another dock. This one was much larger than Morthal’s, industrial, moored with massive boats and trading vessels.

He steered Kahodnir around the peaks, and the City of Kings slid into view.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/SjPtvKCrmoY)
> 
> **Context notes:**  
>  * There are four **stages of vampirism**. In the first stage, vampires are 30% weaker to fire and lose 15 points of all stats (health, stamina, magicka). This weakness worsens with each passing day that they do not feed. However, they also gain new spells and a stronger resistance to frost.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	4. Good Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Content warnings –_ blood, burns

*

 

Windhelm was a huge settlement, cold stone and snow, home to the leader of the Stormcloak rebellion. Saitama had steered clear of Skyrim’s civil war as best he could, and had no intention of involving himself in it now. He urged Kahodnir lower, down toward the white earth across the river from the city. The trees thinned, snow thick and untouched around Windhelm’s tall walls. Ice floated on the stream where the snow bled, a familiar sight in Skyrim.

Kahodnir touched down a short distance from Windhelm, across the bridge to the main entrance, wings lifting a flurry of loose powder. Nearby trees groaned in the downdraft, rocks and hardy grass patches buffeted. Saitama dismounted and helped Genos to solid ground, distracted by a group of people near the stables.

A swarm of two men and one woman crowded near the bridge, dressed in brown-grey armour that bore the symbol of a flaming shield. The knights were gathered around a familiar tent – the camp where the Khajiit trading caravan stopped to sell their wares. The knights held themselves with haughty authority, their leader stood over the Khajiit merchant with hands on his hips.

Saitama dismissed Kahodnir, and met eyes with Genos as the dragon swept away. The blond, having also spotted the knights, looked as uneasy as Saitama felt. The couple eased into a furtive stroll, traipsed through the snow to approach the caravan.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” growled the dark-furred merchant, seated on a rug in the mouth of the tent. Saitama recognised the tiger-like markings of his pelt: Ma’dran. His two guards, Ma’jhad and Ra’zhinda, flanked him in defensive stances, the female Ra’zhinda with one hand on her sheathed sword.

The lead knight towered over Ma’dran, intimidating in his faceless helmet. “Think harder, cat,” he said. “You must have seen them pass through, you filthy smuggler. You will tell me what you know, or we’ll ransack your caravan and take your Skooma to the guards!”

Ma’dran flicked his tail. “Please,” he all but purred, over the moaning wind and snorts of horses. “We are simple traders. We see many faces, every day. We cannot be expected to remember each one of them. Folk without fur all look alike, you know?”

The female knight stepped forward. Her long braid whipped with the motion, crimson war paint dark in the soft glow of dusk. “Liar!”

When Genos puffed up and started forward, ready to intervene, Saitama found his gaze drawn to the woman’s shield. Abruptly, he recognised its symbol.

 _Dawnguard_ – vampire hunters.

He shot out a hand, seized Genos by the wrist. The blond spluttered, yanked to a halt, and looked to Saitama, mystified. The Nord shook his head, frantic. A deep furrow marred Genos’s brow, but Saitama tugged him into motion before he could speak. He led the mage toward the stables, around the Dawnguard, tried to slip by them and cross the grand bridge into Windhelm unnoticed.

“You! Hold there!”

Under his breath, Saitama cursed. He let go of Genos, who had not thought to sneak on such short notice, and half-turned toward the knights. Genos read his posture and stepped in front of him, driven to shield his husband from the strangers. The blond sensed that something was very wrong: for Saitama to not jump in and defend the Khajiit from such bullying, he must have been afraid.

Saitama was _never_ afraid.

The less important-looking male soldier strode out to greet them, while the leader straightened away from Ma’dran with a huff. This knight – young and sporting a long red beard – gave Genos a quick once-over.

“We’re looking for a vampire seen in Eastmarch recently,” he said. Genos gulped at the word, but kept his expression neutral. The bearded man thumbed the head of his axe. “A Wood Elf, name of Brelnnir. You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?”

Genos shook his head, hair still sodden and limp from the rain in Morthal. It fell into his eyes, jabbed at the bridge of his nose. “I do not,” he said, and forced fear into his voice. “A vampire in this area, you say? Need I be concerned?”

The woman let out a ‘tch’. From the ground, nose twitching, the Khajiit trader flicked his tail sagely. His bodyguards shifted in place, restless, though Ra’zhinda had removed her clawed hand from her sword.

Without prompt, the Dawnguard leader gestured to Saitama. “What’s the matter, milk-drinker?” he shot. “Sabre cat got your tongue?”

While the brute chortled at his own joke, Saitama shook his head. “Can’t help you,” he said, face hidden. “Sorry. Just on our way through.”

With a suspicious squint, the woman sidled around the bearded knight. She stooped as she neared the newlyweds, tried to peek under Saitama’s low hood. Saitama tensed up, jaw clenched where he faltered.

He knew that if he faced away, it would look like he had something to hide. But if he did _not_ move, the Dawnguard lackey would see his face and realise what he was.

There was no avoiding a fight, he thought, was there?

In a heavy sigh, he looked up to meet the woman’s gaze.

Her jaw dropped in surprise. In one fluid motion, she jerked back – away from Saitama – and drew her sword, slashing the blade out in startled attack. Saitama deflected the blow with his forearm; the blade sliced through his cloak but glanced off his nigh-impenetrable skin, and he changed stance to find his balance. Genos was in front of him before he knew it, hands ablaze with fire and electricity.

“ _Vampire_!” the woman shrieked.

Saitama opened his mouth, tried to reason – but the Dawnguard drew their weapons before he could voice a word. Ma’dran scrambled up from his rug and fled, his bodyguards in hot pursuit down the snowbank, away from the stables. At the sight of the lead knight’s greatsword, Saitama flapped his palms.

“Wait–!”

The woman slashed again, red-beard dashing up behind her with axe at the ready. Genos cast a wall of lightning to drive them both back; the flare of it threw the stables into sharp relief, startled the horses, scorched the dusk with raw power.

Over Genos’s shoulder, Saitama saw the leader charge; his greatsword was _huge_. Even if the mage could cast in time, he knew Genos’s Ward spell was not strong enough to repel a strike from such a weapon. Saitama grabbed Genos by the neck of his furs and wrenched him back, slipped in front of him to catch the massive blade in his palm.

He noticed a difference.

The blow made his knees buckle, joints giving out under the weight of it, and he staggered. Instinctively he knew, he _knew_ , this was because of the sun – the last dregs of daylight on him, weakening him, strength flagging from a lack of blood. The soldier pounced on his stumble, and cracked Saitama in the face with the pommel of his sword. Saitama wheeled away, double-vision – straight into the path of the fireball that Genos had launched at the other knights.

Saitama expected the spell to wash over him, as magic always did, harmless. At most, it would singe his clothes – but never his skin.

This time, it _hurt_.

The flames caught his right arm full-on, licked along his shoulder and grazed his ribs, ate through his clothes like acid. The pain was instantaneous, overwhelming, the smell of charred flesh making him choke on his scream. So hot it felt cold, Saitama could not think for the agony that ripped through his bones. He could smell it, smell his own skin burning, smelled the panic that burst from Genos and the shocked triumph from the Dawnguard.

The next thing he knew, he was on the ground. His scorched arm had folded in on itself, tucked up against his chest. Tears blurred his eyes, the snow and stone of the bridge tilted at ninety degrees. He saw movement, fast, a streak of lightning somewhere through the ache. The pain was worse than when he had lost his Voice, worse than when that spriggan had torn into him and almost killed him. It burned, oh gods, _it was still burning_. On impulse, he crawled forward and buried his wounds in the snow. The biting cold made him sob in relief, gasp in a breath and blink away the fog.

One of the Dawnguard – the bearded youngster – lay prone before him, unmoving. Saitama could not smell his blood; Genos must not have killed him, but knocked him out. The leader’s greatsword shone on the ground a few feet away, also unstained. With great effort, once the pain ebbed enough to think, Saitama raised his head from the rough dirt.

He saw the moons above, pale and faint in the twilight sky, clouds painted indigo as the last embers of daylight faded. He saw the dull glint of armour in the distance, two retreating backs. He heard wolf cries, eagles and crickets, twitchy horses in the nearby stable and the moan of wind through frozen trees.

Then Genos was there, scooping him up with muttered swears, calling his name in an urgent frenzy. Saitama seized the front of his clothes, gaped around, hauled himself into a sitting position with a strained, ragged breath. He had never seen Genos so poised, so anxious, coiled like a spring ready to snap. The mage whipped up his human hand, set it aglow with white-gold Magicka.

When Genos pressed that palm to Saitama’s wounded limb, and tried to heal him, the pain surged back to life.

“Stop, stop!” he howled. Clumps of snow fell away from his flesh, skin sizzling where the spell touched him. “I’m _undead_ , you idiot!”

Genos lurched back, as if _he_ were the one burned, white with horror at his mistake. Healing magic had the opposite effect on the undead. He reached to steady the Nord when Saitama hunched over, helpless while his husband moaned and cradled the blackened limb to his front.

Shame throbbed in Genos’s gut. He had hurt Saitama, twice – the first time by accident, the second through sheer stupidity. He looked to the dimming sky. An aurora had blossomed between them and the clouds, vibrant greens and pinks and yellows. Under the cover of night, out of the sun, perhaps Saitama would regain his usual healing rate? Genos hoped so: through the scorched holes in his cloak and leathers, the blisters looked incredibly painful.

They should not travel tonight, he thought, not when Saitama was injured and vulnerable.

Though Genos did not say this aloud, the Nord seemed to understand. He allowed the mage to help him to his feet and hobbled alongside him, across the bridge and toward the towering gates of Windhelm.

The city slept cold and grey beneath the aurora, all carved stone and ice and snow. The inn, Candlehearth Hall, stood a short ways from the entrance, atop a set of steps. A beggar woman huddled close to the flaming brazier outside, wreathed in smoke, warming her hands. Firelight pooled in the windows of the inn, warm and welcoming, fine doors set back under archways. Genos stepped in front to shove open one door, and ushered Saitama inside.

Straight ahead, a staircase led to the upper floor. The counter sat off to the left; the blond woman there greeted the travellers brightly, offered them fresh bread and cheese. Genos, mind on autopilot, left Saitama in the entrance to march to the counter, and demanded a room for the night. Without waiting for an answer, he slapped some gold onto the table. He then rushed back to Saitama’s side, and steered his husband through to the sleeping area before the innkeeper could rise from her chair.

The first room on the left was unoccupied. It was also small, poor-lit, and cramped; a double bed had been pushed into the corner, a lone candle flickering on the dresser at its foot. Genos shut the door as soon as they were alone, and turned to find Saitama dazed on the spot with eyes closed tight. His teeth were grit, cold sweat on his brow, back hunched to protect his wounds.

Lips pressed thin, Genos began to undress him. Saitama tried to fight him off, to hide the damage within the tattered cloak, but Genos told him to be still. His voice rang firm for its lack of volume, commanding. Saitama obeyed, head down, and Genos stripped him of his rucksack and the top half of his leathers. Both were tossed to the floor, forgotten with the cloak.

Exposed to the stale air of the room, Saitama’s burns wept freely. Genos stopped breathing at the sight of them. Out of the sun, the injuries had begun to heal; sores stretched over much of his wounds, raw and open, angry red against the Nord’s sickly-white skin. Still, the process looked slow – and even as Genos watched, Saitama trembled in obvious pain. He looked somehow frail, weak and shaky where he clutched the blond’s arms for support. Genos steered him to the bed and told him to sit, then crouched to unlatch the backpack at his feet.

He knew how he could help his love.

Perched on the edge of the bed, Saitama buried his face in his palms. The room was still, quiet, smelled of people and old wood and cloth. He was glad of the dark, of the peace and isolation, but thought that a bustling crowd might take his mind off the ache. He dared not down look at himself. His arm still felt wreathed in flames, bones burning.

Vampires were weak to fire. He had known that – just did not expect it to affect him _this much_. He had thought that being Dragonborn would protect him, to an extent, had thought his training with the Greybeards would let him brush off any injury.

A soft sound met his ears, like a small blade slicing through air, and he looked up.

Genos stood before him, over him, face set with determination. He had removed his outer furs, stripped to his tunic. Saitama followed the rigid line of his body down, along to where his metal limb hung apart from his side. In its hand, Saitama saw his own dagger – the one he kept in his rucksack, for hunting and camping tasks – held in a loose mechanical grip. Confused, Saitama’s coal-red gaze flicked back up to his husband’s silver one.

“Do not argue with me on this, Saitama.”

In a slow movement, precise and calm, Genos pressed the dagger to his forearm.

Saitama froze. His wounds made him slow, clumsy, weighed down his mind and motor functions. Before he could spring up from the bed, before he could knock the knife to the floor or tackle the blond away, the sharp blade broke flesh.

He clapped both hands to his face, blocked his airways, jumped back and fell onto the bed. His teeth clenched so tight that he feared they would crack, eyes huge with panic and accusation as Genos stood there and let the blood roll down his arm. It gathered on his elbow, splattered to the bare floorboards between his boots. Saitama could not tear his gaze away: candlelight caught on the wasted droplets, danced on the beads until they soaked into the grain.

“My magic cannot heal you,” said Genos, “but my blood can.”

His quiet, level voice drew Saitama’s full attention upward. Hypnotised, the Nord searched his husband’s expression. There was no fear there, no disgust or dread – just love, loyalty, concern. Genos looked to his own wound, then offered his arm to Saitama.

“No,” the Nord bit out through locked fingers, still refusing to draw breath.

Genos’s face hardened. “Saitama–”

“ _No_.”

In a rustle of cloth, the mage swept forward. He sank to kneel on the bed, legs framing Saitama’s, and hunched over him, pinned him to the mattress. “Feeding will make you stronger,” he said, nose inches from Saitama’s. The Nord faced away, still masked by his own hands, still unbreathing. “You will heal faster, regain your strength. Please, _let me help you_.”

With the last dregs of air in his lungs, Saitama protested. “I thought you didn’t want me to be a vampire?”

Genos leaned down, pressed his mouth to Saitama’s cheek. The kiss eased the Nord somewhat, lingered, made his chest heave and lungs ache. Air was only necessary if he wanted to speak, but he yearned for it anyway. He wanted to–

“I do not,” said Genos. His weight pressed on Saitama, unyielding, and he let his hands trail over the man’s bare chest when he sat back. Gooseflesh rose in their wake, milky abdominal muscles speckled with his blood. “Please … you are hurt. This is the only way I can help you. You cannot infect me: I am a werewolf. And while I am in human form, my blood will not infect _you_ with lycanthropy. Would you rather lose control tomorrow, and bite one of the sailors on the boat to Solstheim?”

Saitama peered up at him with fearful eyes. _No_ , no, he would not. Maybe they should return to Morthal, he thought, wait for Falion as Genos first suggested. They did not know when Falion would return, and be able to cure him, but….

His wounds throbbed. His stomach flipped, chest drum-tight and throat like sandpaper. With trembling fingers, he coiled a hand around Genos’s red-streaked wrist and sat up. He wanted – he _needed_ –

He breathed.

The hot-sweet scent flooded his senses, pulled his body forward to crush against Genos. He heard a moan, somewhere far away, pained and needy – and realised with a start that it was his own. He buried his face in Genos’s clavicle, clutched his wrist like a lifeline, fought to think straight.

“You sure…?”

He felt Genos turn his head in a prickle of hair, felt him wrap his prosthetic arm around Saitama’s bare back. “I am yours,” he said. “Use me.”

The walls crumbled, restraint shattered, and Saitama brought his husband’s wrist to his mouth.

 _Gods_.

He did not know why it had taken him so long.

Genos’s blood set his tongue alight, made him shudder with relief. Honeyed, coppery, smooth and thick, like sweet nectar, ambrosial, _more_. He wanted more. Fierce, desperate, almost lustful hunger made him clamp down, made him seal his lips around the cut. It tasted like sugared fire, indescribable, _glorious_ , flowing down his throat like wine. It rolled under and around his tongue, coated his mouth, a rush of pleasure like nothing he had ever experienced.

It was blinding, empowering, clouded his thoughts with bliss as tendrils of viscous heat spread through him. He felt drunk yet alert, vividly aware of the pulse under his teeth. More, _more_. He felt himself salivate, felt his eyes fall shut as his burns bubbled and shrank, felt his spine hunch when his fangs found Genos’s neck.

It was terrifying.

He felt the full effect of subjugating another life, knew that he could kill Genos and take his life-force for himself. In that moment, he held total dominion over the most precious and guarded thing another person could possess. He could claim it for himself, take it all, purely by virtue of his power. He could reach into the very soul of his prey, with his bare hands, and snuff it out. _Take_ , until there was nothing left.

He felt powerful, in ways he had not been before. _Lethal_. He was made for this.

A muffled whimper against his shoulder slapped Saitama from his ecstasy, and he realised he had the blond in a bone-breaking grip. He sucked in a gasp, jerked back, hot blood dribbling down his chin. The candle on the dresser had burned out. How long had he…? Saitama leaned away from the man in his arms. He panicked at the look of pain-dazed exhaustion on Genos’s face, at the way the mismatched hands slipped limp down his bare chest.

After a pause, Saitama petrified that he had taken too much, Genos cracked open his eyes. The lashes fluttered, pupils unfocused, cheeks pallid. “I can spare more …” he said.

The words left him slurred and drawled, and Saitama swallowed hard. He felt alive, abuzz, energised. The taste lingered in his mouth, but soured when his gaze trailed down to Genos’s neck. The fresh wound there was messy, multiple jagged bites through torn flesh, as if he had been mauled by some feral creature. It oozed over his shoulder, into his tunic, onto the bed and Saitama’s lap. Feeling suddenly sick, despite his own mended wounds, Saitama groped for the sheet beneath them.

“No,” he said. “No more.”

He tore off a strip of cloth and pressed it to the blond’s neck, and with his free hand did the same for the cut on his forearm. Part of him wanted to lick the wounds clean, but he dared not allow himself the twisted pleasure. Genos hummed in disapproval, slumped against him, high on the venom of his husband’s fangs. Saitama did not breathe while he cleaned him up, movements stiff and robotic.

He did not blame the Dawnguard for hunting vampires as they did, indiscriminately. Before, he had not appreciated their views. He had thought they should only hunt the most powerful undead, the Vampire Lords who kept human cattle and slaughtered mortals for sport. The Dawnguard hunted _all_ vampires, even the ones who hid themselves away and tried to lead as human lives as possible. Saitama had disagreed with this, believed that those who denied their curse should be pitied – not murdered.

Now that he knew the addictive taste of blood, knew how hard it was to _stop_ , he understood the Dawnguard’s hatred.

Genos made a sleepy sound, and curled against him in a tired embrace. Saitama faltered a moment, afraid that he had sent him into shock in his thirst. Cautious, guilty, Saitama moved to lie the blond down on the bed. The frame creaked in protest of such movement, but he ignored it. He instead brushed the hair from his husband’s waxy face, watched as Genos smiled up at him and slowly fell asleep.

Wicked shame overwhelmed the buzz of strength Saitama had stolen from his husband. He pressed his forehead to Genos’s, kissed him with bloody lips. This could not happen again.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/VyKIkIIHWjY)
> 
> My IRL friend (yes, the one who suggested I kill Genos in the last fic) helped me out a lot with the feeding scene. He has redeemed himself, no? ;)
> 
>  **Context notes:**  
>  * **Khajiit** are beastfolk, feline humanoids native to the deserts of Elsweyr.  
>  * **Skooma** is an addictive narcotic produced from Moon Sugar and Nightshade, highly illegal in Skyrim.  
>  * The **Dawnguard** is an ancient order of vampire hunters, based in a fort to the east of Riften. They dedicate their lives to eradicating vampires from Skyrim.  
>  * One **cure for vampirism** is to contract lycanthropy, by drinking the blood of a werewolf's beast form. _Feeding from a werewolf in their human form does not cure vampirism._ I tested this myself in-game. It only works when the werewolf is in beast form - ergo, when drinking Aela's blood during the Companions questline.  
>  * Similarly: **werewolves are immune to regular vampirism**. They _can_ be infected if bitten by a more powerful Vampire Lord, however, but Saitama is not one of these. He is a regular, lesser vampire.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	5. Old Friends

*

 

The Northern Maiden was a fine vessel, a longboat that operated out of Windhelm. Well-built and sturdy, she was the only ship with which one could book passage to Solstheim. Her route crossed the sea from the City of Kings to Raven Rock, the main settlement on the island between Skyrim and Morrowind – ancestral home of the Dark Elves. She sailed to ferry supplies between the two nations, but would also carry passengers if the price was right.

The Maiden’s captain, a bearded blond Nord named Gjalund Salt-Sage, remembered Saitama from his last passage to Solstheim. He gave Saitama a discount, for helping to reopen Raven Rock’s mines years back, and the boat was soon on its way, casting off from the icy waters of Eastmarch.

Saitama sat near the aft of the boat, his back to a stack of crates while Genos napped against his side. The Nord held one arm around his husband, kept him semi-upright as the deck pitched and rocked beneath them. The lapping of water filled his ears, Genos’s soft heartbeat, the screech of gulls overhead and groans of wooden planks below. Salt stung his nostrils, sharp air and fish and brine, sweat from the sailors as their songs carried over the waves.

Genos shifted, but did not wake. Saitama held him closer, pressed a light kiss to the hair of his crown.

Genos’s strength as a werewolf meant that he recovered quickly from injury, including blood loss. This did not mean that feeding Saitama took no toll on him, however. He had risen late that morning, and fumbled through breakfast in a drowsy daze until they left the inn. The brisk wind of the docks seemed to rouse him, though he nodded off again almost as soon as the Maiden left the harbour. By half an hour into the ninety-minute voyage, he was sound asleep.

Saitama kept his gaze forward, frowned out from the hood of his cloak as ash began to dull the air. Though not familiar with the history of other countries, he knew that Morrowind’s great volcano had been erupting for many years. He could see it, on the southern horizon, the great plume of churning dust and smoke, stretched like a cyclone from Red Mountain to the heavens.

Solstheim rose from the sea, bloomed through the ocean spray, a fuzzy mass of foreign soil and strange-shaped buildings. Even the air smelled different here, dry and burnt and sooty. The ash tainted the sky in pastel shades of orange and lilac, the smog somehow different to Skyrim’s cold haze. Ahead, Saitama spied the bulwark – the tall wall built around Raven Rock to shield the village from ash – and, farther out, the Earth Stone. The standing stone acted almost as a beacon, its tip joined to the clouds by a pillar of greenish light.

Saitama shifted where he sat, and gave his slumbering husband a light squeeze. Another five minutes, and they would disembark. “Genos,” he muttered, with a press of lips to the mage’s temple. “Wake up. We’re here.”

Genos nuzzled against him, then cracked open his eyes. He peered around, bleary and disoriented, nose whistling as he took in the island ahead. “This … Solstheim…?”

“Yeah.”

The sea breeze caught his hair, parted his fringe and made him squint. He had regained his colour, almost fully healed from last night’s sacrifice. The bites on his neck had faded to pinkish scars, just visible above the collar of his furs. Saitama, still invigorated from the meal, kissed the crease between his selfless partner’s eyebrows, and sat up.

The dock slid into view around the edge of the mighty bulwark, dull red-gold banners aflutter near the top of the wall. The insignia of House Redoran – one of the families that made up the Grand Council – rippled on their cloth, like a stylised scarab beetle. The Northern Maiden curved around the bulwark, rolled on the waves as it pulled alongside the jetty. Red lanterns lined the pier, strung from wooden posts, lit the walkways for the guards who patrolled in strange chitin armour.

Saitama helped Genos to his feet, and stepped down from the crates as Captain Gjarlund announced their arrival.

Dunmer architecture differed much from that of Skyrim. The elves built their finer buildings from the shells of giant prehistoric crabs, the ground and structures cloaked in a fine layer of ash. The island was flatter than Skyrim, though still somewhat mountainous, a little warmer away from the snow. Saitama thanked Gjarlund and led Genos off the boat, up the pier and onto the shores of Solstheim.

Though years had passed since his last trip to Raven Rock, precious little had changed. Saitama headed through the mouth of the bulwark, stopped before the towering set of steps that led to the temple. To the right, past braziers and clumps of jagged scathecraw leaves, a guarded gate in the vast wall opened onto the ashland. To the left, between round urns and an abandoned cart, he saw the marketplace and bulk of the settlement. Crates and barrels lined the street, emblazoned banners and lanterns everywhere.

He could still remember where everything was. The apothecary, the tavern. The forge and smithy, run by Glover Mallory – a Nord, and the only member of the Thieves Guild on Solstheim. The manor where Adril Arano worked for Councillor Morvayn. He gripped the straps of his rucksack, and headed left to the market – toward the stall owned by Dreyla’s father, Fethis.

Some of Saitama’s dread must have shown on his face, for Genos linked their hands while they walked. The blond fixed him with an encouraging smile, and Saitama squeezed his metal fingers in thanks. He was glad of Genos’s presence, too much know how to express. His scent was steadying, familiar, something solid in a sea of strangers.

Some of the Redoran Guard, in their yellowish bonemold armour, recognised him as they passed, pointed to him and called out. Saitama answered with curt nods, hid his face as best he could. While Genos’s blood had fed a little colour into his complexion, there was no masking those fiery eyes.

He spotted Mallory working the grindstone at his smithy, watched by an Orc loan shark whose name escaped Saitama. He did recall the Orc’s bodyguard – Splitter. There were fewer guards than he recalled, though, fewer people in the market; only one or two Dunmer browsed the stalls and shops, the rest either indoors or absent. The smell of blood hung everywhere, masked by ash, alongside something bestial – something almost like Genos, but wilder.

The werebears Dreyla had mentioned?

Fethis’s stall was right where he remembered, a run-down cart and table outside a carapace house. Fethis himself, however, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, close to the vacant stall, Saitama spotted two elves. One was a woman he had never seen before: slender and young, in standard Dunmer clothes, with an amulet around her neck. She frowned as she spoke with the other elf, an older male in orange-brown clothes.

Saitama paused by the well at the heart of the market. He pointed the male elf out to Genos, who leaned in to listen. “That’s Arano,” he said. He raised his voice a little, strained to make himself heard over the squeaks and squeals of the nearby grindstone. “Second councillor. The guy who sent me the letter.”

Genos nodded, and fell back into step when Saitama started toward the councillor.

“–I’m terribly sorry,” said Arano, in that polished nasal voice of his, “but I’m afraid I can’t help you. He specifically asked not to be disturbed.”

“I just wanted to pay my respects,” said the woman. Saitama slowed as they neared, puzzled to recognise her necklace as an Amulet of Talos. He had thought that the Dunmer worshipped their own pantheon, not Skyrim’s gods.

“Then you can visit the temple or ancestral tombs, like everybody else,” said Arano, stiff. “Now, please, don’t bother me again. If I catch you skulking around the Alor household, I will have you thrown into the bulwark jail. Understood?”

The woman sighed. “Yes, serjo,” she said.

When she stalked away, Saitama cleared his throat. Arano turned to face the noise, and his entire countenance changed. His strict face split in a smile, angular eyebrows high on his long forehead. He swept to greet the Nord, blood-red eyes creased with relief.

“I see that my message reached you in good time,” he said. He stopped short of Saitama, and nodded briskly. “Thank you for coming.”

Saitama balled one fist, having expected a handshake. “Sure,” he said, and lowered his hood.

Had he been speaking to anyone else, he would have kept it up to hide his face. He trusted Arano – and from his past services to Raven Rock, he knew that Arano likewise trusted _him_ too much to fear what he had become. Arano did pause, briefly, at the glow of the Nord’s eyes, but chose not to comment. Instead, he cast Genos a curious look.

Saitama gave a start. “Ah, this is Genos,” he said, “my … my husband.”

He felt a tingle in his chest at the word. This was the first time he had said it aloud, and the first time he had introduced Genos as anything more than his apprentice.

Arano nodded again, this time toward the blond. “A pleasure to meet you, sera,” he said. Genos frowned at the unfamiliar term; Saitama made a mental note to explain it later. “I am Adril Arano, second councillor to Lleril Morvayn, of House Redoran.”

Genos bobbed his head, but said nothing.

Arano’s gaze flicked back to Saitama. He raised a hand to hover over the Nord’s shoulder, and gestured in the direction of the bulwark. Saitama took the hint and started walking, Genos at his side as they strolled across the barren marketplace.

“I shan’t mince words with you,” said the Dunmer, once they passed the smithy. Smoke curled hot from the forge, Mallory still pedalling away at the grindstone. Arano sighed. “I am glad you’ve come. We have … something of a predicament, here on Solstheim, and I’m afraid we must call on the services of the Dragonborn once again.”

Saitama tugged up his hood as they passed the guard outside the Retching Netch tavern. He caught a whiff of the alcohol within, foreign recipes, tired bones and hot food despite the midday sun. “Dreyla mentioned something about werebears,” he said.

Something like sorrow passed over Arano’s pinched face, and he stopped in his tracks. Saitama turned to him, crestfallen. “Her father found her, you know,” said the Dunmer, forlorn. Saitama’s shoulders sank, but he waited for the elf to continue. “She had not long returned from your celebrations. She headed north to trade with the Skaal, and was mauled on the road. Horrible business.”

Saitama breathed out, slow and deep. A sliver of the guilt eased from his conscience, knowing that she had not died when travelling for him. “The werebears,” he said, voice low. “Dreyla said there’s more of them, than before. They’re spreading over the island. And they’ve been … _abducting_ people?

Arano’s face grew grim. “They come day and night,” he said, “at random, and steal people away. Dreyla was the first casualty. I’m surprised no-one was killed sooner – they aren’t the most careful of creatures. To be frank, I didn’t even know they were sentient.”

Genos shook his head in a flurry of golden locks. “I do not understand,” he said, nose wrinkled around the smell of sparking metal from the smithy. “Some werewolves may lose themselves in the animal, but most keep their wits. Are werebears different? Are they _all_ feral?”

Saitama shrugged. “I thought so, yeah,” he said. “I’ve met a few. None of them were exactly friendly. Maybe only one or two still even knew how to talk, in human form.”

This seemed to trouble the mage.

Their party of three began to move again, back toward Morvayn Manor and the break in the wall that led to the docks. They slowed in the piled ash outside the manor, and Arano reached for the handle.

“I must return to my duties,” he said, sombre. “It troubles me to drag you back into our problems, Saitama, but I don’t know what else to do. I have dispatched a dozen soldiers to search for the abducted, and none have returned. You have helped us in the past, many times over. I had hoped….”

“It’s okay,” Saitama spoke over him. Arano faltered at the interruption, and his shoulders sank in relief when Saitama flashed a smile. “I understand. I’ll look for your people, and see if I can find out where the werebears are coming from.”

Beside him, Genos folded his arms. He did not argue, however, and Arano regarded them both with gratitude.

“My thanks,” he said. “If there is any way I can assist you, sera, anything you need, please, do not hesitate to ask. Raven Rock is at your disposal.”

After one final jerk of the head from Saitama, Arano ducked into the councillor’s house and disappeared.

For a second, Saitama stared at the closed door. Sooty breezes swirled around him, carried burnt scents and the quiet roar of the ocean. His smile then fell, replaced by a grimace. “Ah, damn,” he said. “I forgot to ask him about Dreyla’s dad … I wanted to give the gold back.”

In a scuffle of boots on bare earth, Genos turned to look at him. A sidelong glance revealed the blond’s conflicted expression, the face of a mother torn between disapproval and pride. “You seem more eager than usual to help these people,” he said. His tone was mild, affectionate.

Saitama stepped back from the house, and glanced about the spiny pinkish bushes that peppered the street. “I spent a lot of time here,” he said. He shrugged, swept a lukewarm gaze over the town. The settlement whispered with life, dry winds and the sighs of bored merchants, punctured by the pounding of Mallory’s hammer. “Folks on Solstheim don’t know much about the Dragonborn, so … it was nice to pretend I was normal.”

Genos looked like he wanted to voice how Saitama was too brilliant and kind to be ‘normal’, but held it back. “Still,” he said instead, “is it wise to become involved in their affairs? _Now_?”

Saitama understood his meaning at once. Genos was still worried about curing his vampirism – still convinced that they should see Falion before launching into a new quest. Saitama did not blame him. “Solstheim’s a small island,” said the Nord. “With the two of us, it shouldn’t take long to track down the abductees. Especially with that nose of yours.”

He paused. Chuckled.

“And mine too, now, come to think of it,” he added. “Huh.”

Bemused, he turned on his heel and started toward the west end of town. They crossed in front of the smithy – Saitama nodding to Mallory – and slipped between the alchemist’s hut and the abandoned building. He thought it wise to grab a change of clothes: Solstheim may have seen less snow than Skyrim, but its temperatures fell just as cold overnight.

“And the werebear problem?” said Genos, stepping around a dusty barrel in the road. “I sense dark magic here, Saitama. Something … disturbing. I do not believe the beasts are acting of their own wills.”

Saitama hummed. “Makes sense,” he said He rubbed at his mouth as the ground took on a slight incline, eyes set on the isolated house up ahead. “They normally kill everything in sight, not _kidnap_ people. Maybe Neloth knows something.”

“Neloth?” said Genos.

The Nord peered up at the serrated cliff behind the house, at the withered grey trees and angled stone columns like a natural fence around the hill. “He’s a … wizard,” he said, lame. No words he could conjure would ever capture the genius, egotistical character of Neloth. “He lives across the island. If the werebears are being controlled by magic, he’ll know or be able to do something about it.”

They slowed on the mound, Genos confused when Saitama reached to open the door of the lonely house. It was a handsome building, another made of a gigantic carapace, its entrance edged by jugs and urns and blocks of stone. It smelled almost clean, unused. The door stood unlocked, and Saitama pushed inside without a hint of hesitation. Cautious, Genos followed him.

The mage was surprised to find the house much larger than it appeared from outdoors. The inside of the shell acted as an entrance hall, complete with hearth and a table of Dunmer alcohols. A dull staircase led underground: the bulk of the dwelling had been dug below the earth, walls smooth, split into branching sections. Genos could not help but gawp around while Saitama led him forward. This house had everything, a town within itself.

They passed an indoor garden of ash yams and scathecraw, an alchemist’s table edged by barrels of potions and ingredients. An enchanter’s station glowed faint in a side chamber, the shelves around it packed with soul gems and thick books. Another chamber was dedicated to the creation and improvement of weapons and armour: a forge, a smelter and grindstone, and a training area complete with practice dummies. The forge looked cold, and had been for some time, but Genos could still smell the coal.

Wide-eyed with awe, he wondered: were all the houses in Raven Rock like this? The owner must have been rich – richer than his family had been, back in High Rock.

Saitama steered him straight ahead, indifferent to the opulence of the home they had invaded. Genos felt rather small when they stepped into what must have been the master bedroom. A circle of four clothed mannequins crowded the entrance, treasure chests and bookshelves and cases of enchanted weapons. Without shame, Saitama approached the closest mannequin.

“You’ll wanna wear something warmer,” he said.

Incredulous, Genos watched him strip the dummy of its clothes. The coat and trousers did indeed look warm, made of thicker material than his own furs. They were heavy and waterproof, with a tall collar to protect the neck from wind. A hat, gloves, and sturdy boots rounded off the outfit; Genos allowed Saitama to pile it all in his mismatched arms, speechless.

“It’s Skaal stuff,” said the Nord. “They live up north, so they definitely know a thing or two about staying toasty.”

Perplexed, Genos watched as Saitama then shimmied to another mannequin. This one was dressed in black; its armour clung sleek to the wooden frame, intricate, a full-body wrap of leather and dark metal. It sported a hood, and a facemask shaped to reveal only the wearer’s shadowed eyes. A cape trailed down its back, while a circular symbol adorned the chest. The stylised nightingale emblazoned there seemed to radiate darkness, glimmered in the candlelight, armour made for stealth.

Genos frowned when his husband shrugged out of his backpack. “Saitama,” he said, subdued. “Are we allowed to take these clothes?”

Saitama twisted toward him, a knot in his brow, hands on his belt buckle. “Uh, yeah?” he said. “They’re mine. I got this set with the Thieves Guild, from, ah … from Nocturnal….”

Genos blinked, somehow more mystified than before. He chose to overlook how the black armour had been granted to his partner by a Daedric Prince, in favour of more pressing questions. Questions such as what Saitama’s belongings were doing in such a fancy house on Solstheim. “Is this some kind of communal home? Or a supply point, perhaps?”

Self-consciousness pooled in the Nord’s face. His bright-hot eyes darted away, to the double bed pressed to the rear wall of the room. “Um … this is my house.”

For a moment, Genos could not process what he had said. The Skaal clothes seemed to grow heavier in his arms, and he snapped from his daze when they almost slipped from his grip. “I … I see,” he said. “Forgive me. I did not know that you owned property on Solstheim – or, well, _anywhere_ , for that matter.”

The palest hint of colour rose in Saitama’s cheeks, so faint that Genos nearly missed it in the firelight. The dozens of candles dotted about the room did little for undead complexion. “Arano – well, Councillor Morvayn – gave it to me,” said the Nord. “I saved his life, once. Some conspiracy by another House. He made me an honorary citizen of Raven Rock, so….”

Saitama whirled away, head down, as if struck by embarrassment. Genos gave the back of his leathers a fond smile, and turned to the table by the door. His husband was so modest, it made his chest ache with affection. He laid the Skaal clothes out on the desk, and set about removing his furs.

They changed in comfortable silence, no words or time wasted. Genos forewent the hat in favour of his old cloak, which Saitama passed to him with a sheepish smirk of thanks. The resulting mismatch of garments gave the mage a bulky silhouette – but he did not mind, so long as it protected him from the cold.

Saitama, on the other hand, Genos could not tear his gaze away from. The Nightingale armour fitted him perfectly, highlighted his lean yet muscular frame, and Genos wondered why he chose to walk around in those formless leathers. Saitama kept the cloth mask down for now, bunched around his chin like a scarf, eyes aglow under the rim of his hood. He looked rather sinister, all-business, mature.

Ruining the image somewhat, Saitama shrugged into his battered old rucksack before the cape. When he made to raise his mask, and cover his face, the blond caught his wrist in a gentle grip.

“How are you feeling?”

Saitama faltered, surprised by the question. He grasped its undertone at once, and shrugged. The leather of his clothes did not creak with the movement, noise masked by magic. “I’m not thirsty,” he said. His tone was firm, a warning.

Genos ignored it. “We should try to keep your strength up,” he said, “and your weakness to sunlight down. You should feed from me at every opportunity you get.”

The Nord tugged his wrist free. “Genos, _no_ ,” he hissed, and turned his back on the mage in a flutter of his cape. With one hand, in a jerky motion, he pulled the cloth mask of his armour up to cover his face. “You’re not … no, okay? You’re only just better from last night. I’m fine.”

The blond’s jaw tightened on its own. He flexed his new gloves, the left one stretched over the unnatural shape of his prosthetic arm. Part of him wanted to demand that Saitama reconsider. He wanted to voice how the ghost of horrible burns chased his dreams last night – but knew that doing so would only make Saitama feel even worse about his predicament.

Perhaps that was why Saitama had chosen _this_ armour, he thought. Not only did it hide what he was, but the mask acted as a physical barrier – a muzzle, almost – between his fangs and the flesh of the living.

Genos clenched his fists at the thought, and stepped forward. He circled around Saitama, gripped him by the shoulders to look him square in the face. Under the hood, above the mask, all that he could see of his husband was the gleam of his eyes. The armour seemed to exude shadows, veiled him in the gloom of Nocturnal. The Nord refused to meet Genos’s gaze, downcast and glum. Here, underground, the only sounds were the flicker of candles and Genos’s pounding heart.

 “I love you,” said the blond. He dug his fingers into the folds of Saitama’s cape, squeezed. “I will protect you, always. I will keep you strong, if you would only allow me.”

The glints of his eyes snapped up, locked onto Genos with such tormented intensity that the mage stopped breathing. The Nord then bowed his shrouded head, and cupped his hands around Genos’s elbows. “Was this a mistake?” he said. “We … we shouldn’t have come. You were right. We should’ve waited for Falion. I’m putting people in danger here, especially … especially you. Gen, I … if I hurt you….”

“You will not,” said Genos. He slid forward, eased them into a hug. He felt Saitama’s hands burrow into his back, felt them clench over his spine. Their knees knocked together and he rested his chin on Saitama’s shoulder, held the smaller man with as much passion as he could convey through touch. “I am not afraid, Saitama. Never, of you. We are here now, so we may as well stay – but we will take care of Solstheim’s problem in no time, and be back in Skyrim before you know it. We will fix you, and then we will have our honeymoon somewhere beautiful.”

Saitama snorted into his shoulder. They straightened up, apart – just enough for Genos to tug down the fabric of his husband’s mask. They shared a kiss, tender and soft, and Saitama reached up to neaten the blond’s ruffled hair. With a sly smile, the mage cocked his head.

“What?” said Saitama, suspicious.

Genos blinked slowly, in the same way that a cat might show affection. “You called me ‘Gen’, just now.”

Saitama froze up, fingers still knotted in golden strands. “I did?” he said, flat with surprise. Something worried came over his face. “O-oh … d’you not like it?”

Genos smiled wider. “It was … meaningful,” he said. “ _Sai_.”

A muscle in Saitama’s jaw twitched, and he untangled himself from Genos. Without a word, glaring at the floor, he ducked behind his mask again. Genos could _smell_ his embarrassment when the Nord strode out of the room. The blond allowed himself a moment to grin, then started after his flustered husband.

They left the manor and headed through Raven Rock, followed the street south until they reached the bulwark. The great plume of white-grey smoke from Red Mountain churned far beyond the wall, bled into the sky like a tornado. A guard stood on either side of the gate that edged the town, one with arms folded and the other’s on his hips. Saitama and Genos passed wordlessly between them, under the gate and through the tunnel-like gap in the massive wall. The ground sloped up within, opened onto endless ashlands.

The vast sea shimmered to the right, edged by the distant misty shores of Morrowind. A wall of natural, hexagonal stone columns stood to the left. With Raven Rock behind them, there were no signs of civilisation. Trama roots grew wild, like spiders on the ground, eddies of dust and cinders dancing under the orange-grey horizon.

“Neloth lives a ways east of here,” said Saitama. He pointed ahead, along the water. “We just have to follow the coast around. Can’t miss him.”

They moved with purpose, somewhere between a stroll and a jog. With such a thick mantle of cloud obscuring the sky, it was difficult to judge the sun’s position. The sodden coast steered south a while before curving east, past an abandoned farm and toppled trees. Flecks of ash swirled like snow, made the travellers cough and squint. The temperature was tolerable, for now, chilled by the ocean breeze and smothered daylight.

The ground rolled, up and down, dotted with desiccated flora and odd-shaped rocks. Over a hill, an old fort rose into view. Beyond it, murky through the fog, Saitama pointed to what resembled an enormous mushroom on the horizon.

“See, I said it wasn’t far,” he said. “That’s Tel Mithryn.”

Genos performed a double-take. “Tel … your friend is a _Telvanni_ wizard?”

The mask hid Saitama’s expression, but Genos sensed his confusion all the same. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “How’d you know that?”

“I have read of the Telvanni House,” said Genos, as they scaled a small hill in approach of the fort. He nodded toward the colossal specimen of fungi in the distance. “They build their towers from such giant mushrooms. The Emperor Parasol, native to Morrowind. Its moss is a valuable alchemical ingredient.”

Saitama faced forward. “Huh.”

The travellers skidded down the slope, headed for the waterside to avoid the fort. They passed an old boat moored at its dock; Red Mountain loomed straight ahead, across the sea, imposing and huge. As they skirted the shore, the trees began to grow crooked. They looked scorched, dead, trunks pushed diagonally in the blast of the initial eruption. Some branches still burned, decades later, snapped boughs smouldering on the ground. The ash thickened, air coarse and grey with its volume.

Saitama thought to himself while they moved. Raven Rock was territory of House Redoran. He had known that the Telvanni were a rival House, which was why Neloth lived on the other side of the island. Beyond that, he had never given it much consideration. “What d’you know about the Telvanni?” he said.

Genos drew himself up, aura intense as they scaled the uneven rocks. “They are powerful mages,” he said. His education and intellect shone through, played in the small smile on his lips. “Typically, they lead isolated lives. They made their vast wealth in the Morrowind slave trade, but much of the House was wiped out in the resulting Argonian invasion. Since they are more concerned with themselves than the world, I understand why this Neloth has done nothing to solve Solstheim’s werebear problem.”

Saitama smirked at that. From what he remembered, ‘concerned with himself’ described Neloth perfectly.

Ahead, beyond the dusty dunes and crippled trees, a river cleaved the shore in two. Saitama’s nose prickled at the stench of molten rock. A misshapen boulder had dug into the earth before them, the soil around it raised like an impact crater. The stone glowed red-hot in patches, like a lump of half-cooled magma. It must have been a chunk of debris, he thought, tossed through the sky in the first eruption. Scarlet-streaked ore glittered underfoot, Heart Stone deposits, clumps of hardy grass and herbs poking through the sand. More of those strange mushrooms appeared through the haze, smaller than the first, far across the stream.

Abruptly, Saitama realised that Genos was no longer with him. Startled, he turned. The blond had stopped dead a few feet back, confusion and focus at odds on his young face, one hand to a tree to steady himself. Saitama opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but Genos motioned for silence. The mage seemed to squint at nothing, ears pricked and nostrils aquiver.

Saitama glanced aside, and likewise sampled the air.

He smelled pumice, dirt, shrivelled bark and crystallised sap. He smelled smoke, saltwater, sulphur. Genos’s scent, the leather of his own clothes, horker stew on his husband’s breath. Baffled, he frowned at the blond. A werewolf nose was better than that of a vampire, it seemed.

Genos shook his head. “Something is near us,” he breathed. “Something … _wrong_.”

There was a sound, faint but _heavy_ , like a large weight being dragged through the ash. Slow, lumbering footfalls framed it – rattling breaths, and the rasp of claws on rough stone. Saitama’s spine snapped taut, body poised in alarm as he stared around. Cold air formed around Genos’s hands, icicles of Magicka at his fingertips, and he sniffed the air more urgently.

A guttural hiss, through jagged fangs. Not a bear, not a troll nor a dragon. A staccato of snapping branches burst the tension, broken twigs as something _big_ shouldered a tree out of its path.

Saitama saw it first, and he jerked a step back in his surprise.

The creature was massive, a biped on all fours, barrel chest and thick limbs and a long snout of razor teeth. Genos was right: the creature looked _wrong_. Grotesque, misshapen – somewhere between man, wolf, and crocodile – an abomination of a chimera. Armoured scales gave way to patches of ragged fur, semi-human musculature warped under bent spines and gaunt tendons. Its terrible face grew twisted, lupine and reptilian traits at war, a powerful jaw and draconic horns. Its eyes blazed small and merciless, without pupils, like drops of molten iron in hollow sockets.

The monster shambled close, limp tail cutting through the ash – the source of the sound – as it plodded over the dunes. It seemed not to have noticed the travellers, glare fixed toward the river.

Saitama realised with a start that he could not smell its blood. Whatever it was, wherever it had come from, this monster was not natural. Not alive – but neither undead. Even on all fours, the mutant stood as tall as him; it loped through the dust, deadly mouth shaped like a grin.

A low growl met his ears as the abomination passed by – and he realised with a start that the sound came from _Genos_.

The mage rippled under his skin, magic forgotten, teeth bared. His fists trembled. His heart raced. Something rose up through his soul, clawed at his mind, instincts and venom and _hate_. Heat pooled in his hands and head, wrathful and sharp.

He could smell it.

This disgrace of a beast was born of Hircine.

At his growl, the abomination – like a bear that had caught the scent of injured game – halted in its tracks. Its large, warped, sickle-clawed hands sank into the dirt, and it swept its narrow head toward the mage. Deformed lips creased to display its fangs, molten eyes like slits, and it let out a long, rattling hiss. A warning. Genos stood his ground, only peripherally aware of Saitama’s presence. The monster snarled louder, turned to face them with hackles raised.

One of Saitama’s first lessons, back when they were still apprentice and master, had been to avoid fights where possible. He had taught the blond of mercy, of compassion toward enemies. In this, though, Genos could not help himself. This creature was a _threat_. His beastblood boiled with primal rage, and he attacked.

His conjured ice spikes shattered on the creature’s hide, glanced off its awful face to pierce the nearby tree instead. The monster roared, unhurt, pounded the earth with its fists, and charged. Genos dived under its swipe, shoved Saitama in the opposite direction. The world moved in a haze around him, blurred at the edges, only the beast in focus. It swung again, smashed a fist through the boulder upon which Genos had leaned moments before. The blond vaulted over the creature’s vast shoulder to get behind it, focused his energy, and loosed a bolt of lightning from his palms.

The arc caught its scaled back square-on – but, like with the ice, his foe barely seemed to notice his strike. Instead, the chimera lashed with its broad tail. The whip-coil of muscle slammed into Genos’s chest, knocked him airborne. He hit the ground hard and tumbled through the ash with a yelp, only stopping when he collided with a boulder.

He lay stunned for a second, pain-dazed and winded. He could not breathe, felt the stabbing burn of cracked ribs. The blow was how he imagined Saitama’s punches to feel, body abuzz and ears ringing from the impact. He heard the roar of blood in his own ears, adrenaline, panic and rage balled into a wail of agony.

At a noise like beating thunder, he forced through the pain to scramble to all fours. He saw the monster charging at him again, heard its talons slice the ground as they soon would his flesh. He knew. It would kill him, here and now. The thing was stronger than a dragon, and his bones would not survive a second hit.

He felt the earth groan as it leaped at him – felt the rush of wind as Saitama streaked ahead and sank his fist into its jaw.

His punch tossed the mutant aside, knocked it into an uncontrollable roll across the dunes. It ploughed through splintered stumps and rocks, down the bank to the stream, and hit the river in a great _crash_ of water. When the spray settled, and Saitama’s cape fluttered still, the beast came to rest face-down in the brook.

Saitama turned on his heel, whirled around to kneel before Genos and help him up. The Nord’s mask had slipped down, face grim-set, his grip of the blond’s elbows tight enough that Genos could not feel his flesh fingers.

“What in _Oblivion_ were you thinking?” he shot.

Atop his furs, in a bright flare of Magicka, Genos clamped a hand to his ribcage to heal himself. He gasped as the bones _snap_ ped back into place, shivered hard in his husband’s arms as aftershocks of pain washed through him.

Before he could answer, a snarl split the ash-stained air.

Both men twisted where they knelt, peered down to the river. In a state of shock, they watched the wolf-crocodile hybrid pick itself up again.

The behemoth shook itself down, dirty water streaming from its hide and pelt, unfazed by Saitama’s punch. It glared up at the newlyweds, and rolled a forked tongue over unbroken fangs. It was unharmed, _angry_.

Genos’s jaw fell open. “By the gods.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/gljeVp6ZpFI)
> 
> **Context notes:**  
>  * **House Redoran** is one of the five Great Houses (political parties) that make up the Grand Council. The Grand Council rules over Morrowind.  
>  * **Serjo** and **sera** are Dunmer terms of respect, like ‘sir’ or ‘madam’. Serjo is more formal, used when speaking to someone of nobility or authority.  
>  * Saitama’s house is called **Severin Manor**. The player receives it as a reward for stopping an assassination attempt on Councillor Morvayn in the _Dragonborn_ DLC.  
>  * **The Skaal** are an isolated tribe of Nords on Solstheim. They keep to themselves, with strong religious beliefs.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	6. From the Ashes

*

 

Saitama could not believe his eyes.

He had fought many monsters in his time – slain countless creatures in his travels across Skyrim. Dragons, trolls, Daedra, werebears, regular bears, spriggans, draugr – but never something like this. He had never before encountered a being that could resist the might of his fists, that could shrug off his punch like a leaf in the breeze.

The mutant dragged the back of one clawed hand across its patchwork skull, batted stray streaks of water from its vision. Its rough jaws snapped in ire, tail curled and body slung low, and it began to stalk a path up the riverbank toward the travellers. Ash clung to its limbs, adhered to the soaked scales and sodden fur.

Saitama yanked Genos to his feet. Anticipation lit his cold veins, excitement at the promise of a good brawl. It had been _years_ since he last felt this way – eager, mouth wet, knuckles itching. The monster could hold its ground against him, in all his power as Dragonborn, could challenge him in a real fight.

He knew that he was vulnerable. He knew it would be foolish to rush into battle now; though obscured by dust and clouds, the sun’s rays still weakened him. It had been half a day since he last fed, and already he felt the hunger niggling at his gut again. Vividly, he became aware of the blond’s pulse and warmth beneath his fingers. If Saitama got hurt again, Genos was the closest blooded thing around to drink from – and he was still recovering from the first time.

It was unwise for Saitama to test his strength against this fiend, in his current condition.

Genos seemed to share his mindset. He slipped smoothly in front of his partner, raised a Ward between them and the mutant. The glimmer of protective Magicka only seemed to encourage the beast, and it sprang into a gallop up the dunes toward them.

With his free hand, Genos unleashed a powerful fireball. The flames curled over the muzzle of the approaching brute, extinguished in a hiss of steam, and it charged on, unaffected. The creature pounced, kicked up clouds of dust with the force of its leap. As Saitama dragged him roughly out of harm’s way, Genos cursed: was there no element that could pierce the hide of this abomination?

In a flurry of movement, Saitama released the blond and darted to where the beast had crashed down in the rocks. With all the force that he could muster, he drove a fist into its side. He aimed for the ribcage, inspired by Genos’s healed injury to land some internal damage. His punch split the wind, ripped a channel through the dirt underfoot and clouds above – but to no avail. The terror let out a short grunt and skidded mere inches in the powdered soil, before twisting to bite at Saitama. He hopped back, dodged the vicious fangs, a dull throb in his knuckles and confusion in his core.

What _was_ this thing?

The animal moved with speed – more than its massive bulk should allow. It chased the Nord with thin jaws snapping, almost caught his cape while Genos circled around. The mage switched tactics, conjured two atronachs to unleash as much lightning on their foe as possible. The bolts swept like vapour over its coarse skin, useless, raised a stench like burnt salt and leather. The creature destroyed both atronachs in seconds, sent them back to Oblivion with swipes of its paws.

Saitama stumbled under another slash of its tail. “It’s gotta be some kind of Daedra!” he said. Nothing else he knew of could possibly brush off so much damage.

With a roar, the chimera whipped around to snap at him. Its tail missed Genos by inches, eyes burning in its horned skull. “Are you sure?” called the blond, over the _crack_ as Saitama’s gloved fist met armoured ribs.

Saitama did not respond, sliding on the sloped ground as he dodged its claws.

Seized by an idea, Genos focused his Magicka again. “Distract it!”

Saitama tripped on a smouldering log, but found his balance while his husband’s hands shimmered with a purple aura.

He whistled to catch the chimera’s attention, lured it down the slope toward the river. It rampaged after him, tackled broken trees aside in great shrieks of tearing roots. Saitama moved to taunt it, danced just beyond the range of its wild attacks. It fought much like a troll, he thought, chasing him down with long forelimbs swinging wide.

He glanced up to check on Genos. An orb of violet energy hung between the mage’s hands, crackling and pulsing. With a grunt of exertion, Genos hurled his charged spell at the creature.

Saitama dived aside, and the orb struck the brute’s flank in a flare of fierce light. The Daedra flinched with a howl, and – in moments – disappeared, sent back to the plane of Oblivion from whence it came. Cinders settled in its empty footprints, the sudden stillness eerie, wind rising to mask the silence left behind.

Saitama straightened up, too surprised to blink, too confused to move. His stare slid to Genos, who stood breathless atop the slope with his cloak blown back. Triumph coloured his cheeks, bright and flushed, his shoulders slack with relief. A peculiar quiet fell over the ashland, the burbling stream and roaming tides like echoes from below.

Genos dropped to sit on the hillside, looking immensely pleased with himself. Saitama started up the mound toward him, impressed. “Definitely a Daedra, then,” he said.

“Definitely,” said Genos. He straightened his cloak and let out a chuckle, one corner of his mouth higher than the other. “I must remember to visit the College when we return to Skyrim, and thank Phinis Gestor. I saw no point in learning his Banish Daedra spell, but he had me study it anyway. Now, I am glad of his insistence.”

Saitama sank to squat beside his husband, and caught his hand to kiss his knuckles. “Good job,” he said.

Genos guided Saitama’s fist to his own mouth, and pecked it with smiling lips.

An odd sound cracked the stillness, strange and otherworldly, and the Daedra reappeared – materialised in the exact spot where it was dispelled.

Both men flailed to find their feet, horrified while the monster flexed its claws in the soot. Saitama tensed up, ready to fight. He had not known that a Daedra could break free of a banishing spell. The garbled noise that left Genos reassured him somewhat, told him that at least the mage was as shocked as he.

The crocodilian wolf looked the blond square in the eye – or as much as was possible, given its lack of pupils – then shifted its glare to Saitama.

With a snort, as if deciding them unworthy of its time, it turned its spiny back on the couple and lumbered away.

“Uh …” said Saitama, tongue-tied while he watched the monster’s dragged tail part the dust. It moved without a backward glance, slow and heavy across the ashland, headed down to where the sea met the shore. “Should we … chase it?”

After a pause, he faced Genos. The blond’s lips were pressed into a thin line, stance poised but frozen with indecision. “I am unsure that we could defeat it, if we did,” he said.

Saitama chewed his lip. Was it right to let such a powerful creature go? To be fair, he thought, it had only attacked them because Genos attacked _it_ first. He would need to ask the blond about that.

In awkward silence, unsure what to do, they watched the Daedra amble down to the barren seafront. It waded out into the shallows, lazily propelled itself with its tail once it reached deeper waters, and ducked under the surface. In a stream of bubbles, swallowed by the ocean, it was gone.

“That was … weird,” said Saitama. Unease prickled at the back of his throat, worry that they had made a mistake in allowing the Daedra to escape.

They lingered on the mound just long enough for Genos to check they were both uninjured, then resumed their path to Tel Mithryn.

Across the river, the falling ash thickened. The flakes fell akin to a snowstorm, albeit grey and not as frigid, and Saitama raised his mask to shield from the taste. The parasol mushrooms of the Telvanni settlement gathered in clusters on the horizon, uneven and faded beyond the hills. They grew twisted, at odd angles, the plume of Red Mountain feeding smoke and smog into the grey heavens.

Saitama could not focus. “D’you think that thing’s linked to what’s happening to the werebears, somehow?” he said.

Genos pulled up the hood of his cloak to hide from the dust. His hair would reek of it for days, Saitama imagined. “Likely,” said the mage. “I sensed Hircine’s touch on it.”

The Nord stared at him. So _that_ was why Genos had been so quick to jump on the offensive. He focused as they passed the first of the mushrooms; it stood at twice the height of Saitama, streamers of moss like ivy trailing from its underside. The ground evened out some, dead trees replaced by oversized fungi. They smelled earthy, foreign even to the soils of Solstheim, an echo of their homeland of Morrowind in the scent.

“Hircine must be behind these attacks, then,” said Genos, words growled out in an undertone. His posture hardened as they strode through the forest of mushrooms, shoulders wound tight and fists balled at his sides. “He must be making his beasts abduct people to infect them, and spread his curse across the island.”

“Why, though?” said Saitama, and he scratched his cheek through the cloth mask. “Doesn’t seem like his style, from what I know. Where’s the sport in it?”

Genos said nothing.

The tallest mushroom towered over all, strung with red lanterns and rope, a winding ramp carved into its belly. Smaller fungi clustered around it, lesser houses at the foot of the tower. Saitama led his partner along a slight trough in the earth, a bowl of ash that curved to the raised entrance of Tel Mithryn.

“Y’know,” said Saitama, when they reached the foot of the ramp. It was of a sharp incline, natural growth at the hand of Telvanni magic. “Sometimes, the best way to learn about a Daedra is _from_ a Daedra.”

Genos paused at the ramp, where Saitama walked on. The blond frowned up at his husband, unsure what he meant, then ducked under the lanterns in pursuit.

Though he had read much about the Telvanni in his studies, Genos was unclear on what to expect from the tower. The round door opened into a cramped space, a narrow but tall cylinder that spanned the height of the structure. He smelled alchemy ingredients, taproot and juniper and troll fat, the scorched aftertaste of failed spells. A vibrant blue rune, intricate and symmetrical, glowed on the floor; tendrils of magical energy streaked upward from it, shimmered like a heat haze.

With no stairs to speak of, Genos opened his mouth to ask if they were supposed to climb the knotted roots of the walls.

Before he could speak, Saitama stepped onto the rune. Its blue glow swept around him, ruffled his hood, lifted him off his feet as if he weighed nothing. It carried him upward, straight up the vertical passage and out of sight.

Genos studied the rune in distrust. Breath held, he copied the Nord and stepped forward. He felt the cool embrace of magic, pressing under him like an updraft, stealing his weight. He spread his arms as it raised him from the ground, and let himself be lifted into the main room of the tower.

He landed behind Saitama, on an outcrop of bridge like a diving board. Saitama strolled forward, unfazed, lowered his hood and mask as he scanned the domed room. Magical objects, potions and paraphernalia, cluttered the space, tables and cupboards heaving with junk. Floating orbs of magelight lit the space, candles on tables and the soft glow of soul gems all around. Dwemer artefacts littered every surface; Genos sensed strong magic in this place, flavoured by time and clashing cultures.

Beneath it all, he sensed another breed of magic. Darker, strange, uninviting, unlike anything he had crossed before. It seemed to creak and moan with some alien energy, a sound heard more in his soul than his ears.

An unimportant-looking Dunmer wandered the room, dressed in yellow and brown, nose buried in a spell tome. One of the glowy orbs trailed after him, a personal reading light. Saitama ignored Neloth’s apprentice, whose name slipped his mind, and peered instead into the multitude of side-rooms.

“Hey,” he called out, “old man!”

An indignant splutter left the room ahead, followed by a _thud_ and bustling footfalls. A second Dunmer then thrust his bald head through the doorway, and Genos knew at once that this was Neloth.

The master wizard stood garbed in elaborate Telvanni robes, ears and beard both long and pointed. Annoyance pinched his narrow face, and it did not clear when his crimson eyes fell upon the visitors to his tower. He focused on Saitama.

“Oh,” he said – _sniffed_ – in a proper accent, the sort of tone one might use to address a mudcrab at the roadside. “It’s you. Well, it’s about time you stumbled in to bother me again. I do hope you make the intrusion worth my while, Dragonborn. Have you found any more Black Books for me?”

To Genos’s surprise, Saitama brushed off the elf’s rudeness. “I see Solstheim’s got a bit of a werebeast problem,” he said.

Confusion creased Neloth’s brow. “Hm?” he said. He strode forward, crossed to a desk laden with candles and potions. He hunched over it, laid his hands on either side of the pinkish soul gem that sat there. “Ah, yes. Talvas mentioned something about that. How bothersome. The man won’t even leave the tower. How am I supposed to focus on my research, when the damn fool refuses to make the trip to Raven Rock for fresh canis root?”

Neloth’s apprentice – Talvas – hung his head nearby, and hurried away to disappear into another room.

Saitama crossed his arms. “Really?” he said. “People are going missing, and you’re worried about your _tea_?”

“Of course, you half-wit,” said Neloth. He straightened up, gestured to the bookshelves. “These things sort themselves out, when you hero types are involved. They always do. It is of little interest to me.”

With a sigh, Saitama tugged at his lowered hood. Genos shifted beside him, pale brow furrowed in disbelief at the elf’s audacity. “Actually,” said the Nord, “I was hoping you’d help me look into it.”

Neloth stepped back from the desk, groaned in exasperation. “Of course you were,” he said. “Why else would you be here. Yes, yes, go right ahead, feel free to interrupt my work.”

Genos opened his mouth to rebuke him, but Saitama nudged hips with the blond before he could speak. Genos settled for a scowl, contained his outrage that anyone would talk to his husband this way. Too warm indoors, he tugged off his gloves.

That sound, again, like the moan of some tortured soul. Genos glanced about, distracted and disturbed. Saitama seemed not to hear it – and if Neloth did, he did not react to it. The noise made the blond shiver – and in the motion, he found his gaze drawn to the room from which Neloth had emerged. Through the opening, he saw an enchanting table and some kind of workbench with a Heart Stone set into its core.

Neloth folded his arms, eyes narrowed while he scrutinised the mage. “What curious company you keep,” he said. Without pause, no time for either of the couple to respond, the elf flicked his stern stare back to Saitama. “I sense dark magic at work on Solstheim. An ancient power, Daedric. It affects the beasts and them alone, drives them to the will of a master, similar to when Miraak spread his influence over the island.”

Genos spoke up. “We fought some kind of Daedra on the way here,” he said. His tongue soured in his mouth, an echo of pain in his ribs. “Something birthed of Hircine. Perhaps _it_ is the master.”

Neloth hummed. “How fascinating,” he said. “Perhaps this is the first sign preceding the Bloodmoon Prophecy.”

Saitama quirked a brow. “The what?”

Neloth made an intolerant sound. “A legend of the Skaal,” he said. “Do you know nothing? Once an era, Hircine is said to enter Mundus and unleash his Hounds upon the land, in a great Hunt. Four signs herald its beginning. The first sign is the coming of the Hounds, when werewolves appear on the island in great number.”

Genos made an aimless gesture. “The beasts abducting settlers are were _bears_ ,” he said, “not werewolves. The creature we encountered in the ashlands _was_ part wolf, but also reptilian. Humanoid, but … twisted.”

Fascination stole across Neloth’s face. “I see,” he said. He huffed a snort, and strolled across to a bookcase at the edge of the room. Genos trailed behind him, but Saitama stayed where he was with a serious expression. Neloth reached for a tome from the highest shelf, and began to flick through it. “Well. I don’t believe in prophecy, anyway. Such drivel rarely holds true.”

Genos watched him read a while, restless. He assumed that the elf had chosen this book to check a theory about Hircine or werebeasts – but a glimpse of its title proved otherwise. He doubted that a _Field Guide to Spriggans_ was in any way relevant to their discussion. Impatient, he hooked his metal fingers over the top of the book, and forced it down.

This had the opposite effect than Genos hoped, however, as Neloth became very interested in his prosthetic limb.

“ _Remarkable_ ,” said the elf. He dropped the tome to the floor with a _thud_ , busied his fingers instead by exploring Genos’s mechanical knuckles. The blond froze up, startled by how reverently Neloth explored his hand. “The limb of a Dwarven Sphere, modified to be powered by magic instead of steam. A flawless grafting, it seems. Simply extraordinary. You must let me study you at once. It would be most enlightening.”

Uncomfortable, Genos tugged his hand free.

To spare the blond an examination, Saitama stepped forward. “Any other thoughts on the werebear problem?” he said. “Like, how to trace where they’re coming from, or the people who’ve been taken?”

With an annoyed sniff, Neloth turned away from Genos. “Were you able to injure the Daedra you battled in any way?” he said. “Rip loose a fang or a claw, or get its blood on you?”

“Nah,” said Saitama, downcast, and he shook his head. “Our attacks didn’t even scratch it. Magic, or brute strength.”

“Unfortunate,” said Neloth. “Without a piece of the creature, or of another beast affected by this magic, I have no way to perform a divination.”

Genos squinted at him. A _piece_ of the creature?

“An item belonging to one of the abductees might work,” Neloth continued. “A piece of clothing, for example. But there are no guarantees. Perhaps the bears took them to use as food during the winter months, a form of hibernation. Alternately, this Daedra is having them abduct citizens to infect them, and grow their number. In either case, by now they are either dead or enthralled. If infected, their biology will have changed to the point where my scrying would fail.”

Genos watched as something grave overcame his partner’s face. Saitama moved closer to Neloth, his air foreboding. He seemed to have forgotten how to blink, sinister in his dark armour.

“Maybe,” he said, “we should ask someone who knows more than we do. D’you still have the thing I left here?”

For the first time in the conversation, Neloth seemed worried. His eyebrows shot up, lips thin, nostrils flared. That haughty confidence soon returned, and he shifted his weight in a guarded stance. “I do,” he said. “But, are you certain that it is … wise, to use it again? It will be dangerous. I don’t doubt that _he_ can help sort this all out, but he will of course try to seduce you. We don’t need another Miraak, Saitama.”

Genos frowned between the two, mystified. ‘He’?

“I’ll be careful,” said Saitama, firm. “I know what I’m doing, don’t worry.”

Neloth scoffed. “Worry?” he said. “Not at all. I am merely interested. I don’t get to observe first-hand many people who have spoken to Hermaeus Mora.”

Genos stilled. “Hermaeus Mora,” he said, and looked in alarm to Saitama, “the Daedric Prince?”

The Nord avoided his gaze. Instead, he followed Neloth into the room with the enchanting tables. Spluttering, Genos scrambled to pursue them. Saitama would not look at him, awkwardness rolling off his shoulders in waves.

Neloth stopped before a stack of crates in the corner of the small room. He removed the topmost box from the pile, then reached for the next. Saitama beat him to it, lifted the heavy container with ease and brought it back into the main room. He cleared a space on the closest table and set down the crate, and slipped a hand into his rucksack. He grabbed his dagger and used the blade to pry open the nailed-shut lid, which he tossed aside despite Neloth’s protests.

Inside the wooden box, on a bed of dry straw, lay a Black Book.

The tome was weathered, ancient, a thick volume bound in something not quite like leather. The cover had faded with time, embossed with an unfamiliar symbol. The emblem looked like it could come alive, a writhing mass of tentacles and pincers like some eldritch horror. Loose pages and stains gave the book a tattered appearance, dust and hay falling as Saitama eased his hands around its spine and lifted it from the box.

Genos felt a flash of panic. The book _groaned_ – the source of the dark, unpleasant magic that he had felt since he first entered Tel Mithryn. He felt it dripping from the pages, almost _tasted_ the power that oozed like blood through Saitama’s fingers.

“Saitama,” he managed, lungs uncooperative. “What … what is that?”

The Nord gave a start, as if torn from a daze, and gulped when he met the blond’s wary stare. “It’s sort of like a portal,” he said. “If I read it, it’ll take me to a place called Apocrypha. I can talk to Hermaeus Mora there. He’ll know about the monster we met on the way here, and what to do about the werebears.”

All moisture fled Genos’s mouth. “ _No_ ,” he said. “Saitama, you cannot be … you have always told me not to trust the Daedra. I cannot believe that you would seek the aid of one so readily.”

“Indeed,” Neloth interjected. Genos flinched, having forgotten the elf’s presence. The wizard stood several feet back from the couple, arms crossed, expression wry. “Hermaeus Mora does not relinquish information without price. He will want something from you in return. You have been down this path before, and it did not end well for anyone involved.”

Saitama glared at him. “D’you have a better idea?” he said, hands still clenched around the book. “A friend of mine is dead, and half the folks in Raven Rock are missing. Maybe they’re dead too, we don’t know. How long ’til the threat makes its way to Tel Mithryn?”

Neloth drew himself up. “Tel Mithryn is shielded against any and all magical threats,” he said. “I am safe here.”

“Well, that’s great for _you_ ,” Saitama shot, “but what about the rest of the island? Raven Rock, the Skaal – what if it spreads to Skyrim, too, or Morrowind?”

Genos laid his hands atop Saitama’s. His air was soft, open with concern. The feel of his skin and metal calmed the Nord, and he lowered the book with a sigh.

“I screwed up, Genos,” he muttered. “The last big threat Skyrim faced, I hid away for three years. I sat back and watched Alduin rip the world apart. So many people died … I’m not gonna let it happen again.”

Jaw clenched, Genos eased the book from his partner’s grip. He set it down on the table, beside the crate, then cupped his palms to Saitama’s cheeks. “But you killed Alduin,” he said, “without the help of a Daedra. Without my help. You do not need Hermaeus Mora for this.”

“Alduin was a dragon,” said Saitama, quiet. His hands found Genos’s hips, buried in the folds of his furs. Genos leaned in to him, palms slipping down the Nord’s neck to his shoulders. “Killing dragons is what I do. This is different. We fought that monster together, and we didn’t even graze it. We need _help_.”

Genos hissed out a breath, shook his head. “There must be another way,” he said. “The Daedra are cunning, ruthless. Hermaeus Mora will try to trick you into servitude. Is it worth it, risking yourself like that?”

Saitama’s coal-gold eyes flicked between the blond’s pale ones, searching. He hitched up one corner of his mouth, and forced a chuckle. “I’m Dragonborn,” he said. “It’s my job.”

The Black Book groaned again, a deep creak, like water in an echoic space. Both Saitama and Genos angled their heads toward it – Saitama indifferent, Genos anxious. Neloth, meanwhile, raised his fine-robed shoulders.

“Do what you will,” he said. “In any event, this will provide an excellent research opportunity.”

With that, the elf left them alone.

In the flickering half-light, Saitama pulled away from the blond. He chewed on his lip for several moments, then turned to the book. Its rough leather itched under his thumbs, weight solid when he lifted the tome from the desk. Even he, with his barely-existent magical abilities, could sense the power that it radiated.

“How does it work?” said Genos.

Saitama shrugged. “I read it,” he said, “and it … pulls me in, I guess?”

Genos pressed a hooked finger to his lip in thought, and leaned over the tome. “I see,” he said. “And, it can transport multiple people at once?”

“I don’t – what?”

Before the Nord could blink, Genos circled to stand behind him. In a rustle of cloth, his mismatched arms wound their tight way around Saitama’s torso. He pressed himself flush to his husband’s back, and Saitama jumped when Genos’s cold nose buried itself in the curve of his neck. His hair brushed Saitama’s jawline, scratchy and fine. The smell of him – so close, without warning – knocked the vampire into a haze of thirst, but he shook himself sober.

“Wh-what are…?”

Genos did not move. “You are not going alone.”

Slowly, with a resigned exhale, Saitama unclenched. He knew better than to argue. He adjusted the book in his arms, cape bunched and uncomfortable where Genos’s chest crushed him, and braced himself.

“Hold on to me,” he said.

He let the book fall open.

A title settled on the tattered pages, _Waking Dreams of a Starless Sky_. Genos found his stare drawn to the words, found himself scanning the text alongside Saitama. _The eyes, once bleached by falling stars of utmost revelation, will forever see the faint insight drawn by the overwhelming question_ ….

For a moment, nothing happened. Quiet stilled the walls of Tel Mithryn, tense and strained. Genos heard the pounding of his own heart, Saitama’s breaths beside his ear, an irritable mutter from wherever Neloth had disappeared to. Dread refused to let his muscles relax, body wound tight like a spring as he read.

Then, the pages glowed.

Strange words rose from the book, slid off the paper in ribbons of brilliant green. They whipped out and snaked around the two men, wrapped the couple in a tight embrace of black-green tentacles and _cold_. Genos gasped at a sudden tug, felt the weight leave his feet as he was yanked forward into darkness.

The journey was over in less than a second – but it left his ears ringing, left his sense of gravity upended and fluid. It felt like he was back on the boat, the ground rolling under his shoulder where he had landed on his side. He felt dislodged, disoriented, too nauseous to move or look around, and he choked down a retch.

 _By Black Book_ was a horrendous way to travel.

A hand gripped the shoulder that was not squashed to the ground, and gave him a light shake. “Genos…?”

When the mage cracked open his eyes, it took a moment for the black to clear from his vision.

Instantly, he knew that they were no longer on Solstheim – on _Nirn_ , even. The air tasted wrong, lifeless and stale, earthy with the smell of pressed paper and ink. Gloom shrouded the hallway into which they had fallen. The walls curved in a seamless passage around them, made not of brick or stone but _books_. More books than Genos had ever seen in his life, each identical to that which they had read to get here. Loose pages and papers littered the ground, scribed in languages the blond did not know. There were no light sources, yet he could see; an odd greenish glow touched everything, filled the passageway with haze. Small pools of some dark liquid glimmered on the floor, the ‘water’ viscous and thick where it rippled as if alive.

Saitama crouched beside him, unease on his face. The odd lighting failed to flatter his gaunt features, but gave him a sickly complexion. He helped Genos sit up, then find his feet, _Waking Dreams_ tucked under one arm. Once the blond was upright, Saitama stowed the volume away in his pack.

A handful of books and swirling papers slid clean through the wall beside them, materialised in the hallway, and Genos stared. Saitama likewise watched the floating tomes pass by – watched them drift into and _through_ the opposite wall, and disappear.

He tugged up the hood of his armour, eyes like embers in the murk. “Welcome to Apocrypha,” he said.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/4la79yCKjI0)
> 
> **Context notes:**  
>  * **Wards** are Restoration spells, essentially magical shields. **Banish Daedra** is a Conjuration spell, which when dual-cast can force stronger Daedra back to the plane of Oblivion from where they were summoned.  
>  * **Miraak** was the first Dragonborn, antagonist of the _Dragonborn_ DLC. He served Hermaeus Mora to learn powerful Shouts, before betraying him. In the DLC's climax, the player must battle Miraak in Apocrypha.  
>  * The **Bloodmoon Prophecy** appears in the _Bloodmoon_ expansion for _The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind_.  
>  * _“Where the **Black Books** actually came from … no-one really knows. Some appear to have been written in the past, others might be from the future.”_ \- Neloth
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	7. The Path of Knowledge

*

 

Like Raven Rock and Tel Mithryn, Apocrypha was exactly how Saitama remembered. Then again, he supposed that time meant little to the eternal Prince of Knowledge and Fate.

Books drifted overhead, weightless, danced in cyclones of paper. The whipping of their pages was the only sound above the shuffle of Genos’s footfalls, Saitama’s own silent on the craggy floor. The mage moved with his bound bow drawn, arrow ready to soar. Saitama had warned him of the Seekers that roamed the hallways of Apocrypha – grotesque Daedra, hunters of knowledge, like floating octopi with withered arms and ragged robes. The one thing more hideous than they was Hermaeus Mora himself.

Apocrypha was _wrong_. It toyed with the explorers’ composure, the very air unpalatable, like a foul odour or infrasound, unnerving. All around, the sensation of being watched.

Saitama took point, sneaked along the gloomy corridor, tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth. Subtle dread cloyed his throat, agitation. He did not regret the choice to come here, but wished he had shown more resolve against bringing Genos along. Saitama was not afraid of Mora or his servants, and nor did he plan to stick around long enough to feel lonely without the mage.

The one benefit to having Genos with him was as a source of blood, should Saitama be injured by the Seekers.

Sooner or later, he thought, he would have to stop putting the blond in such danger.

The hallway curved, thinned around a small pool of that blackish liquid at the foot of the wall. As the couple tiptoed by, the surface of the water rippled. A tentacle, slick and slimy, rose from its depths, and whipped to slap at the intruders. Saitama and Genos both jerked aside, jumped apart to avoid the hit. The slippery limb coiled on itself, as if angered by their presence, and sank back into the puddle.

Saitama shivered, and plucked at his mask. This place had always set his teeth on edge.

The air hung thick, hazy, vast mounds of tomes and scrolls piled on the floor of the bend. Tattered banners trailed from the arched ceiling; they bore the same symbol as the Black Book, the sigil of Hermaeus Mora. Their runes were incomprehensible, foreign.

“I do not like this place,” said Genos, through tight teeth.

While they moved, Saitama cast him a sidelong look. “You could’ve stayed with Neloth,” he said.

The mage’s nostrils flared, and he adjusted his grip of his bow.

Around the corner, the passage of books transitioned to dark stone. A narrow archway opened into a dull-lit room, too far away and misty to make out much within. The hallway darkened, papers crunching underfoot.

“Where is Hermaeus Mora?” said Genos, uncomfortable with such oppressive silence.

As they neared the exit of the corridor, Saitama straightened up. The coast was clear; he saw no Seekers about, not even the telltale smoky glimmer when they made themselves invisible. “He likes to float about in the big, open spaces,” he said. “Well, I mean … he’s _everywhere_ , sorta. He _is_ Apocrypha. But, he only ‘manifests’ to talk where you can see the sky.”

Genos nodded, curt.

The exit led to a small, circular room. Empty pedestals for books lined the space, another dark pool at its centre. More tentacles emerged to lash at the intruders, who dodged the greasy limbs with ease. A table stood off to one side, buried beneath soul gems and books – _normal_ books, written in familiar scripts. Genos dropped his guard to approach the desk, tempted to read, but Saitama dragged him away. The cavity in the opposite wall led into a second corridor, identical to the first, and the explorers crept on in silence.

Time flowed strangely in Apocrypha.

There were no celestial bodies, no cycles of day and night, but its passage was undeniable. The hunger was Saitama’s only means of vague measurement. He guessed that they spent more than an hour wandering, cold and lost and apprehensive. Every now and then, they would stumble across open books on plinths. Alien words streamed across their pages, shifted in motion atop the paper. When read, these books teleported their readers between Chapters of Apocrypha – different areas of the realm.

It was disorienting.

After what felt like an age, they came across their first Seeker. Genos froze in horror of the sick sight of it, leaving Saitama to punch the creature to dust. The Nord was pleased to find his fists still effective against _this_ type of Daedra, at least.

Conversation waned, replaced by tension and nerves as they slinked through Mora’s library. Strange architecture bled from the walls, hideous busts with gaping maws. They caught rare glimpses of a pale green sky, through windows like woven veins or webbing.

After a short eternity, an open tome took them to a Chapter that felt _very_ familiar to Saitama.

An open space, a platform, raised above a sea of acid and writhing tentacles. Pointed archways all around, linked to nothing. Towers in the distance, spiked and slender. Twisted columns of books, bent in ways that defied gravity and logic. An eerie sky above, laced with tendrils of light, iridescent, like a terrible aurora. Patches of murk hung high overhead, churned with dripping limbs.

At the centre of the plateau, on a bed of disc-shaped steps, a webbed chamber stood over another Black Book. The massive skeletons of three dragons lay still on the ground, dead and bare and drained of their souls.

This was where he had fought Miraak, the first Dragonborn.

Genos sensed an echo of the battle, even now. Latent energy thrummed in the air, the smell of violence and desperation. Scorch marks stained the rock, pools of ice and black slime and the grooves of a sword. He lowered his bow and looked to the Nord, whose jaw was clenched tighter than Genos had ever seen it.

Saitama pulled down his mask, and threw back his head.

“Mora!”

At once, the pressure changed. Genos fought not to sag beneath the weight of it, struggled to breathe.

Blackness bloomed in the air above them, bubbled like tar, repulsive. Tentacles oozed out of the rift, sluggish and slick. A dozen eyes opened within the gruesome mass, then a dozen more, with pinched, rectangular pupils like those of a sheep or goat. The central eye opened last, the largest and most unsettling of them all, and blinked in lazy satisfaction.

A voice, refined yet guttural, rumbled from the twitching, simmering mass. “Ah … my … _champion_ ….”

Saitama took a firm step forward, boots silent on the craggy stone. He held out an arm to keep Genos back, skin tight and prickled beneath the unnatural heavens. “Not here to chat, Mora,” he said. “What d’you know about what’s happening on Solstheim?”

The longest of the tentacles flipped, wiggled as the voice hummed in contemplation, and the eyes blinked again. “Patience, Dragonborn,” said the Prince. Genos shivered at its voice, the hairs of his nape rising to attention. Mora spoke slowly, syllables drawn-out, wise and clever and deliberate. “It has been … quite some time, since our last … conversation. I had … _hoped_ … you would return….”

Saitama squared up to the wriggling, floating mass. “Just a visit, Mora,” he said, tone pointed. There was no sound here, beyond a distant groaning – creaks of ancient magic, unpleasant and _weird_. He wanted to leave as soon as possible, fidgety and frightened for a reason he could not place.

Mora’s presence was suffocating. It squeezed at his lungs, shortened the breaths he did not need to draw, and _he wanted to get out_.

“A shame …” said the Prince. The tendrils curled and wormed, pensive. “Hm … very well. I will … share … my knowledge, with you. As always, for a price.”

Saitama shook his head, lips thin. He felt himself begin to sweat. “What is it, this time?” he said. “Is there another innocent man you want me to bring you, so you can murder him?”

Behind the Nord, Genos shifted his weight. The magic of his bow began to distort and fade, its charge expired. He sensed animosity between his husband and the Prince, a long and unfavourable history. He also felt disturbed by Mora’s aura, tense and stressed.

A pulsing sound, a quiet ringing, awful and faint. The central eye narrowed in glee. “Knowledge … for knowledge,” said Mora. “Once again … you have entered my realm, seeking … my council. I know what you want. The beast, you encountered … the fate, of the people of Solstheim. I know it all.”

Saitama looked to the closest of the dragon skeletons, roved his eyes over its thin skull. No dust veiled it, no dirt, nothing to indicate the passage of time. “What was that monster?” he said. “Where’d it come from?”

“Ah,” Mora sang, “but you already know, my champion. The Daedroth was … _crafted_ , by the Huntsman of the Princes. It came from his Hunting Grounds … a cursed life … a twisted life. Hircine … groomed it, a beast to challenge Sheogorath … and gave to it … the _curse_ , of lycanthropy.”

Genos stepped around Saitama, against the Nord’s unspoken wishes, in a rustle of Skaal furs. “A … _were_ -Daedroth?” he said.

The black mass squirmed above. “Indeed,” said Mora. The Prince’s tone rang soft, smug. Genos felt Mora’s full attention on him, a hundred eyes all pinned to him at once. “Hm … perhaps _this_ … will help you understand, mortal….”

A tentacle stretched outward, as if to gesture. Cautious, Genos turned to follow its pointing tip. Beside a twisted archway of books, he saw a shimmer in the air – gaseous shadow. The cloud swept to hover before him, and burst into solid Seeker form. The mage lurched back, startled. The Seeker floated in place a moment, face strange and cruel, then slid withered hands out from under the tatters of its robes.

It offered to Genos a book, bound in handsome brown leather. Before Saitama could warn him not to accept, at least until they knew what Mora wanted in exchange, Genos took the tome from the Daedra’s skeletal fingers.

While Saitama scowled, and the Seeker flickered out of existence, Genos inspected the book’s cover. _Sixteen Accords of Madness,_ volume six. He let the book fall open in his mismatched hands, and scanned the pages.

“‘Of pitch heart and jagged fang’,” he read aloud, “‘the unspeakable horror had no peer, even among the great hunters’–”

“–‘of Hircine’s sphere’,” finished Mora. Genos raised his gaze from the book, and shuddered to find each one of Mora’s still focused on him. The orbs sank and slid about the nauseous mass, were absorbed and reappeared moments later, sickening. “Study this. Know your kin … moon-born.”

Genos’s silver eyes widened.

Saitama felt a surge of protectiveness, and grabbed to yank the book from his partner’s grip. Genos dodged him, ducked away to keep reading. With a sigh, Saitama let him. The tome was not the sort that would induce insanity in its reader, he thought; only the Black Books risked that.

Instead, the Nord faced Mora again and drew himself up. “So, Hircine sent that thing to Solstheim … why?” he said. “Why’s he making the werebears abduct people?”

Hermaeus Mora let out a laugh – low, gurgling, ominous in its softness. The sound congealed on the ground, seeped off the edge of the platform and down to the ocean of blackness. “How little you know,” said the Prince.

Saitama pulled down his mask, anxious. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

The sky pulsed. “Hircine’s beast is … _not_ … the source, of Solstheim’s woes,” said Mora. Genos rifled through the pages of his book, one ear still pricked to the conversation. Mora hummed before continuing. “The Huntsman … sent it, to free his progeny … from the toxin, that binds them.”

The air shivered, and Saitama drew closer to Genos when the misty streak of another Seeker drifted by. He felt his muscles bunch, on-edge. The invisible Daedra ghosted away, disappeared. The aurora-like clouds glistened high above, pools of acid agleam with their image.

“A mortal wizard … _plucks_ , at the strings, of fate …” said Mora. The eyes blinked, languid, tendrils twisting and slithering over each other in knots. “She has … influenced … the Beast Stone, as Miraak once did. The tainted Stone affects all beasts, near it … seizing their minds, under her … domination.”

Saitama frowned. “She bent the will of the Stone, with her magic?” he said. “That’s not … I thought only a Shout could do that.”

Mora hummed again. “Hircine … took this corruption, of his children … as an affront,” said the Prince. “He dispatched his finest … _creation_ … to hunt her.”

Genos tore himself from his book. “Then, there is no cause for concern,” he said. He looked to Saitama, expression neutral, and summarised what he had learned from the pages. “Hircine fashioned it as the strongest, most ruthless hunter. Even at peak health, Saitama, I doubt that you would be able to harm it. The Daedroth will surely slay this wizard – and without her, the werebears will return to their private ways.”

Before Saitama could respond, Mora’s rolling limbs swayed to catch the mortals’ attentions. “I would not be so … certain, of its victory,” said the Prince.

The longest tentacle swayed close by their heads, and Saitama winced as its wretched chill brushed back his hood. His apprehension built the longer they stayed here, and he wondered if seeking Mora’s council _was_ a mistake after all.

In a shudder of sound, the Seeker reappeared – or perhaps it was a new one. They all looked identical. The Daedra hovered before Genos, face-tentacles flicking. In stiff silence, Genos held out the book in his grip. The Seeker snatched it from him at once, then teleported away to return the tome to Mora’s collection. Genos wiped his palms on his cloak.

Mora sighed. “This wizard was once a … _servant_ , of mine,” said the gelatinous mass. “A knowledge-seeker … by the … name, of Nardri Vereleth. All that she knows … she learned, from me. Her power has been … _cultivated_ , beyond her years, and experience. A worthy opponent … to Hircine’s _pet_.”

A distant sound, like creaking timber, and Saitama felt the demon’s eyes all shift to him. He braced beneath their weighty stare, skin stippled like gooseflesh under the leather of his armour.

“You must cleanse the Beast Stone, Dragonborn …” Mora rumbled. “Cleanse it, with your Voice … as you have before. Free it, from her tyranny … and end her rein.”

Saitama swallowed hard. “What’s your price?” he said. Genos glanced at him, a nerve-wracked crease in his brow. “You’ve shared your knowledge, but you don’t give anything away for free. What’s the bargain?”

The tips of the tentacles waggled in delight. They seemed to grow, oozed around the intruders to Apocrypha – encircled them, possessive. “I am … pleased … that you remember my ways,” said Mora. “Nardri has … _disappointed_ me. I entrusted my knowledge to her… as I did you, and Miraak. Like him, she will be … punished … for her insolence.”

Against his better judgement, Saitama let out a chuckle. “You don’t have the best track record with your ‘students’, do you?” he said.

At once, he regretted his words. Mora bristled, tangibly, the pressure of his presence all-encompassing. The sky dulled under the mass of his rage, the sea of acid writhing far below.

The tentacles around Saitama all turned their tips toward him. They gleamed, dangerous, convulsed with scant-restrained aggression as the Prince fought the urge to impale him. Saitama went rigid where he stood, saw Genos half-sink into a combat stance beside him.

One of the appendages crawled out, and pressed its curve to the underside of Saitama’s jaw. Cold and slimy, with light but inconceivable strength, it forced his chin upward. He had no choice but to peer into Mora’s central eye, throat bared and vulnerable as he gulped.

Fear struck him full-force.

He remembered Mora scorching the mind of the Skaal shaman, remembered how the Prince had branded a Word of Power into the dead man’s chest as ‘thanks’ to Saitama. He remembered the aftermath of the battle with Miraak – how Mora had speared the first Dragonborn through the heart, and lifted him into the air. Saitama remembered watching the Prince burn Miraak to dust and bones, at this very spot in Apocrypha.

The Prince of Fate may have spoken in mild tones, like an elder or gentleman, but Hermaeus Mora was as cruel and ruthless as any Daedric Lord.

Mora would not kill Saitama. Not yet, anyway, not when he could still ‘serve’ the Prince – but that made him no less afraid. All the power in the world, all the Shouts and skills Miraak had learned as Dragonborn, did not protect him from Mora’s wrath. Saitama was not as experienced as Miraak, and – in his current state – knew that he was certainly not as powerful. If Mora decided him obsolete, or troublesome….

There would be no more time for jokes.

“Miraak’s … fantasies, of rebellion, led to his demise,” growled Mora. The cadence of his voice took on a cruel edge, a snarling undertone, sharp and pitiless as the tentacle caressed Saitama’s jaw. “When I claimed his soul, I warned you. I told you … to learn, from his mistakes. Whether you acknowledge me, or not … is your own business. But, betray me … and I _will_ break you.”

The limb slid across his throat, and Saitama suppressed a shudder. He did not realise that he had screwed his eyes shut until the appendage pulled back, and he let out a trapped breath. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and he took a step back to lean against Genos. The blond steadied him in a heartbeat, nostrils flared with hatred of the Prince.

Mora made a throaty sound, almost a sigh, a purr of contemplation. “I will extract my payment … in the form of Nardri’s soul.” The Prince’s voice had returned to its genteel softness, though seeped no less dangerous through the bubbling cloud. “You will … slay her … in my name. I will be watching … Dragonborn.”

Like oil leaching through a pelt rug, the oozing mass of eyeballs and limbs withdrew into itself. Hermaeus Mora shrank into empty air, disappeared into the very fabric of Apocrypha.

Saitama’s knees buckled.

Genos sprang to catch him, snagged a strap of his gloves as he fell. The blond lowered his husband to sit on the ground, and crouched in alarm before him. He supported the Nord’s shoulders, watched helpless while Saitama pressed one palm to his face and the other to his wheezing chest. It was _wrong_ to not hear the thunder of his heart, but instead the shallow breaths and spectral moans of Apocrypha.

“Are you–?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Saitama cut across him, through gritted teeth. He simply knelt and panted for a moment, shaken to the core. He could still feel an echo of the tentacle on his throat, and rubbed hard at the spot to dislodge the sensation. Genos’s grip kept him solid, kept him _here_ , and he could breathe.

He was not used to being scared.

With a laboured swallow, he glanced up to meet Genos’s concerned gaze. The blond looked more worried than Saitama felt, though his distress eased when the Nord’s fingers took his wrists in a light squeeze.

“Let’s go,” said Saitama.

Genos helped him upright, not questioning his partner’s uncharacteristic display of fear. Saitama grabbed the Black Book, _Waking Dreams_ , from his rucksack, and hooked an arm around Genos’s waist. The mage did the same, binding their bodies tight, and gripped the tome’s front cover where Saitama held the back. Together, they opened the book and let its foul magic yank them back into Solstheim.

They landed in the exact spot where they had been whisked away, near the table in Neloth’s tower. This time, Genos managed to stay upright when his feet hit solid ground. He stumbled, hip knocking into the desk in a rattle of potions, and slammed _Waking Dreams_ shut.

The sound slapped Saitama from his paralysis. He gasped alert, though continued to cling to his husband while they blinked back to Tel Mithryn. He raked glowing eyes over the veined, honeycomb-like walls of the central room – rooted himself in the benches and candles and the stink of ash. The buoyant orbs of magelight were somehow soothing, familiar.

They were back, he told himself. They were _safe_ , and he willed his bones to unclench.

More time had passed in Apocrypha than he first assumed. The ash-smell failed to mask the scent of Dunmer blood, which made vivid the extent of his hunger. It took him a second to smother the thirst, to tackle the flare of fire in his stomach. He almost missed the stale emptiness of Apocrypha’s air, nothing but Genos around to tempt him.

Neloth was nowhere to be seen – and nor was his apprentice, Talvas. With some difficulty, the newlyweds untangled themselves from each other. To Genos’s distaste, Saitama – face grim-set – stowed the ancient tome back into his rucksack. Neither man spoke a word, until the Telvanni wizard thrust his head out from the enchanting room.

“About time!” sniffed the elf. He strode into the main area at a jaunty pace, with an armful of Dwemer scrap metal and a glowing orb in his wake. He stopped short of his guests, unruffled by their shaken appearances. “Well? Out with it. I assume old Hermaeus Mora told you how to defeat the Daedra that plagues my island.”

Genos looked to Saitama, but faltered when he saw the hollowness in the Nord’s eyes. At once, he knew that Saitama did not feel up to conversation. In his place, Genos stepped forward to relay all they had learned to Neloth.

Numb, Saitama made his way to a crate that lay near the door of a side-room. He heard buzzing from within the chamber, the angry drone of caged spriggans. He ignored the sound, focused instead on planting his backside on the sturdy box. Sitting down seemed like an excellent idea: his limbs were still aquiver from the demon’s touch.

He took a minute to _breathe_ , face in his hands. He had never been afraid of Hermaeus Mora before, not like this. He had always known that the Prince had the power to kill him – but his vampirism, his weakened state, brought this fact to stark attention.

He bolstered himself. Mora could not tell him what to do. Saitama believed in keeping bargains as much as he believed in helping those in need, but the Daedra were a special case. They tried to trick their way into having the upper hand, deceived those who came to them for aid. Always, they hungered for souls and servants. The Daedra could not be trusted, and Mora was the sliest of them all.

Saitama would cleanse the Beast Stone and track down this Nardri, yes – but not because Mora asked it of him. He would do it to help the people of Solstheim. He would likewise not set out to kill the wizard … not without good reason.

Most villains he had faced thus far could not be reasoned with, but there was always a chance. He always hoped. They were misguided, and he tried to make them see the error of their ways. He tried to avoid violence, where he could. Sometimes there was no choice, like with Alduin. There had been no negotiation with the World Eater. But this Nardri woman was a mortal, and – until he saw otherwise – he felt that she deserved a second chance.

Just because he had the power of a dragon, did not mean he _should_ use it.

“Nardri, you say?”

Saitama glanced up, dragged from his thoughts and palms alike. He found Neloth with his arms crossed, the Dwemer scrap transferred to a nearby desk. Genos stood across from the elf, a mix of suspicion and bewilderment on his face.

“That is what I said,” said the blond. Subconsciously, perhaps, he stood at a slight angle to Neloth, his prosthetic arm hidden from the elf’s line of sight. “Why?”

Neloth stroked his beard, deep in thought. “I recall I had a student by that name,” he said. “A second apprentice, alongside that useless Talvas. Curious. Though, I’m not certain she was talented enough a mage to enchant the Beast Stone, as you claim.”

Saitama – recalling how Neloth’s _last_ former-apprentice had risen from the grave to seek revenge on her master – felt a wave of déjà vu. He shifted where he perched, one hand on his knee to support his weight as he leaned forward. “What happened to this student of yours?”

Neloth sniffed through his long nose, as haughty as ever. “I banished her from Tel Mithryn,” he said. “I caught her trying to sneak off with one of my Black Books. The fool. It was a lost volume – _Arcadian Felicity_. It contained the secret to the creation of dimensions, as discovered and designed by the greatest of the old followers of Mehrunes Dagon.”

Saitama stood. Certainty thrummed in his veins. A powerful wizard taught by Hermaeus Mora … and an apprentice of Neloth by the same name. It could not be a coincidence. “You banished her,” he said, “so, you don’t know where she is now?”

The elf glared at him, as if offended, fingers digging into the creases of his sleeves. “About a month later, she reappeared here,” he said. “She claimed she’d discovered some incredible power, and demanded I take her back as a student. When I refused, she stole the book and I never saw her again. I’d just gotten my hands on it, so I didn’t have chance to make myself a copy. This was about a year ago, now.”

Genos frowned. “We can be sure it is the same person?”

Saitama rubbed at his throat, gaze locked on Neloth. “Mora said her surname was Vereleth.”

The elf squinted, his expression that of supreme unconcern. “I don’t recall.”

Saitama toed his boots on the floor. Of course Neloth would fail to remember something so – to him – trivial. “Well,” he said, “the last time an apprentice of yours wanted revenge for the way you treated her, she raised an army of Ash Spawn. Maybe Nardri’s doing the same thing, with werebears?”

Genos ran a hand through his hair, and Saitama quashed a stab of jealousy. “But, _why_?” said the blond. “If this all took place a year ago, and she stole a Black Book – a gateway into Apocrypha – she has likely learned much from Hermaeus Mora in that time. Why bother crafting an army, when she could walk in here herself and exact her revenge in person?”

Neloth let out a snort. “Even with the knowledge of Hermaeus Mora,” he said, “I sincerely doubt she has grown powerful enough to challenge a master Telvanni wizard. Perhaps she just wants to make a statement. She always did have a taste for the dramatic.”

Saitama and Genos exchanged a glance. The Nord tugged at his mask, which had bunched around his neck where it was lowered, tiredness and thirst playing at the corners of his mind. He suppressed both. Genos gave him a sympathetic smile.

Neloth let out a nasal _harrumph_ , and set his hands on his hips. “At any rate,” he said, “if the Stone is what’s corrupting the beasts on the island, and influencing them, it wouldn’t do at all to have _you_ go near it.”

Like the flame of a candle, the smile on Genos’s face extinguished. Unblinking, he twisted to peer wide-eyed at the elf. “Excuse me?”

Neloth clicked his tongue. Saitama, however, spoke over him. “Wait, you _know_?” he said. “You let him in here, with everything that’s going on, even though you know he’s a werewolf?”

“And you a vampire,” said Neloth, matter-of-fact. “Only an imbecile would not realise.”

Genos’s face pinched, incredulous, and Saitama cocked his head. Did the elf just … _not care_? Even though Solstheim’s werebeast population had developed a sudden tendency to go savage, and abduct settlers? The Nord opened his mouth to question Neloth’s sanity, but paused when the gears of his mind rolled into motion.

Neloth was right. If the corrupted Beast Stone infected _all_ werebeasts, not just bears, then Genos was at risk. Nardri would be able to control him, as well. Saitama cupped a hand to his mouth, preoccupied. Perhaps he should leave the blond here, with Neloth, and go cleanse the Stone alone? No … Genos would never allow that. The Stone was not altogether far from Tel Mithryn – but Genos refused to let his ailing husband out of his sight, even for a moment. Genos would never let him go by himself.

A thought occurred, and he straightened up.

“Have there been any were _wolves_ seen in the raids?” he said.

Neloth made a disgruntled noise. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, aloof. “They don’t dare venture near Tel Mithryn, and I have no reason to leave the tower. I have everything I need here … except my damn _canis root_.”

He raised his voice so that his apprentice, in one of the dark side-rooms, would overhear. Genos ignored him, in favour of facing Saitama square-on. “You have an idea?”

Saitama shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, “maybe not. There’s one werewolf clan left on Solstheim – or there was, three years ago. The pack in Frostmoon Crag. It’s pretty close to the Beast Stone. So, if they’ve not been seen raiding with the bears, they’ve probably not been affected by it. They must have some way to, I dunno, _resist_ Nardri’s control.”

Genos latched on to his train of thought. “We should head there first, then,” he said, “and see what these werewolves have done to keep their minds their own.”

With a flap of the hand, Neloth wheeled away. “I have wasted enough time on this,” he said, and scooped the Dwemer scrap from the table in a curt _screech_ of metal. In the process, he knocked over a narrow yellow bottle; the potion fell to the floor and rolled away, unnoticed by the master-wizard. “Do what you will. But when you deal with Nardri, be sure to retrieve my Black Book, will you? I _do_ so miss it.”

He returned to the enchanting room without another word.

Saitama tugged at his cloth mask again, and leaned a hip on the table. The trek through Apocrypha had left him drained, in both physical and emotional senses. He raised his head when Genos’s metal hand found his shoulder. The blond seemed unable to look away from him, as if Saitama were his entire world, gaze brimming with affection and support. Candlelight danced along his smooth features, shimmered in those intelligent silver eyes. Even now, after their marriage, Saitama was still sometimes struck by his husband’s looks.

“I apologise for delaying us with a detour,” said Genos.

Saitama managed a smile. He threaded his fingers through the blond’s, and brought up the mechanical hand to press his lips to its knuckles. “Don’t.”

Genos moved to kiss him back, but a scuff of feet gave them pause. Saitama startled to find Neloth’s apprentice – Talvas – stood a respectful distance away, a bundle of blankets in his arms. The Dunmer looked young and unkempt compared to his master, with scrubby robes and shoulder-length hair, but his face was a pleasant one.

“You should sleep here tonight,” he said, and held out the threadbare sheets. “It’s dangerous to travel the ashlands after dark, these days.”

Saitama blinked at him, disoriented. “What time is it?”

Talvas lowered the blankets a fraction, but did not bring them back to his chest. “Sundown was a few hours ago, now,” he said, tone troubled. “You were in the Book for quite a while. There’s a room you can use – Master Neloth shouldn’t mind.”

Though unhappy with the thought of delaying themselves further, Saitama agreed. Perhaps a good sleep would make him feel better, he thought as he accepted the blankets.

Sleep, however, did not come easy to either vampires or werewolves.

Saitama lay awake for what felt like hours, stripped to his tunic beneath the knot of sheets. The room they had been led to was small, with a single bed, filled with cobwebs and empty bottles and baskets. The candles and lanterns within sat unlit, the subtle glow of magic sliding past the doorway whenever Neloth or Talvas walked by. After a while, the apprentice went to bed – but Neloth stayed awake, stayed busy, never resting from his experiments.

Saitama lay on his side, his back to Genos, facing the wall. His eyes stung, muscles sore and stiff from motionlessness, but he could not settle. He refused to wriggle to get comfortable, afraid to disturb his partner.

The room smelled unused, dusty and stale, the rug on the floor clean from neglect instead of frequent scrubbing. He smelled dry wax and glass and fungus, the wood of stored crates and support beams. He licked his lips, squeezed his eyes shut to try and force sleep. The only sounds were Neloth’s footfalls and mutters and Talvas’s snoring, and the slow-heavy _thud_ of Genos’s heartbeat.

Hunger gnawed at Saitama’s insides, and he hissed in frustration when his stomach growled.

A long, deep inhale whistled behind him. The covers pulled taut, and he stayed as still as possible when Genos rolled over. The blond nuzzled close, exhaled tingling warmth onto the Nord’s nape.

To his surprise, Genos was also awake. His voice came slurred, whispered. “How much do you need?”

At first, Saitama thought he had slipped unconscious and into a dream. Soft lips pressed to the base of his skull, reverent, a tickle of hair on his crown. Insistent fingers then pried their way between his ribcage and upper arm. The hand pushed through the gap, snaked to wind around his chest in a rustle of coarse cloth.

Saitama held his breath. He struggled to ignore the heat of the arm around him, the pulse inside the chest pressed behind him. “No,” he forced out.

It was a familiar scene: Genos, offering his blood, and Saitama, refusing. He was determined, this time, not to give in.

Genos raised himself an inch from the straw mattress, all but blind in the dark. He roved over Saitama’s silhouette, all rigid lines and tension. “We should keep you sated,” he murmured.

Genos knew that Neloth was still around, somewhere, but he did not care. He did not care that they might be overseen, that someone might witness his complete devotion to his husband. He did not even care that someone might perceive Saitama as a monster, or be afraid of him.

What he cared about was the thought that, if he did not feed, Saitama might lose control and bite someone _else_.

The concept made Genos’s skin crawl with envy, unpleasant and shameful. In some dark, hidden, perverse way … he wanted Saitama to taste no other. It was Genos’s duty to protect him, to care for him. Feeding him was part of that, an honour, an act of love. It was intimate, and he did not want Saitama to share that with anyone else – to take _someone else_ ’s lifeblood into himself.

Genos knew these thoughts bordered on possessive. They mortified him, but he could not explain or dismiss them. He wanted Saitama to drink _his_ blood, and his alone. He would keep the man strong, in any way he could.

He trailed feather-kisses up the back of Saitama’s neck, stroked his chest from behind. “Please,” he said. “I have recovered from last night. I am strong. Let me pass that strength to you.”

The man stiffened before him, did not roll over. “Not thirsty.”

It was a lie, and Genos knew it.

The blond scowled, and pressed his forehead to the bump at the top of Saitama’s spine. He lay cold in Genos’s arms, prone. The mage felt the stress in his partner’s muscles, through their clothes, the rock-hard strain in his back. He sensed discomfort, white-knuckled restraint, a silent plea in the stillness of his limbs. A different kind of shame flashed through Genos, and he pulled away.

Lying close to him hurt Saitama.

When the blond’s warm weight left him, and the smell of blood retreated, Saitama visibly relaxed. The tight cords of his muscles unwound and his shoulder sank, and he let a sigh escape into his pillow. Genos shuffled back, as far as he could on the narrow mattress, tried not to let the rejection sting him.

Vampirism was different to lycanthropy, he knew. Most days, now, Genos did not notice the symptoms of his disease – at least, not enough to think about. The instincts, the heightened senses; he had grown used to them. Saitama was different. While he was still new to his condition, the very nature of it made what he was impossible to ignore.

To survive, he _needed_ blood. He needed to hurt people – and for someone like Saitama, who valued peace and justice and avoided bloodshed where he could, that need was soul-crushing.

He would rather burn from within, starve of thirst, than inflict harm on another.

Genos rolled over, his broad back now to Saitama, and curled up as small as he could. An ache in his chest, he hoped that they could fix Solstheim’s troubles soon. The sooner they took care of Nardri and her werebears, the sooner they could return to Skyrim and end Saitama’s pain.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/itPtO4EaEXU)
> 
> **Context notes:**  
>  * **Sheogorath** is the Daedric Prince of Madness.  
>  * _[Sixteen Accords of Madness, v. VI](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:16_Accords_of_Madness,_v._VI)_  
>  * The **Beast Stone** is one of the six All-Maker Stones scattered around Solstheim. They are important to the Skaal faith, maintaining the “oneness of the land”.  
>  * Neloth's previous **apprentice** was Indari Sarothril. She died when Neloth transplanted her heart for a Heart Stone, but rose from the grave to take her revenge on him.  
>  * **Mehrunes Dagon** is the main antagonist of _The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion_. He is the Daedric Prince of destruction, violent upheaval, energy, and mortal ambition.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	8. The Man Who Cried Wolf

*

 

As they headed north from Tel Mithryn, Genos came to understand why Saitama had insisted on wearing heavier clothes.

The air grew swiftly colder, morning fog draped thick about the ashlands and splintered trees. Soot-stained wind moaned cold over the hills, drew creaks and _snap_ s from dead trunks, lifted ash from the earth in whispering plumes. The chilly mist drained the landscape of colour, dunes and mountains washed-out and pale.

Genos secured his cloak over the Skaal furs, ducked his chin as a sharp breeze threatened to push him back down the hill. He climbed the mound behind Saitama, boots catching in scathecraw patches and knots of withered brambles. Ahead, through scattered trees, he saw the first gleam of snow on a mountainside. The soot and cinders masked its scent, the smell of dry flora and weathered rocks. He wondered if the snow still fell white on Solstheim, or if it mixed with the ash into black and grey.

He was in half a mind to ask Saitama of its colour, since the Nord had been here before – but unease kept the mage’s tongue still in his mouth.

Genos had woken that morning to find Saitama absent, missing from their bed in Tel Mithryn. His panic and nose had led the blond outside in seconds, down the stem of the mushroom-tower and out into the grounds. Mercifully, Saitama had not gone far. Genos found him cross-legged in the dirt, hands sifting through the ash, staring off at Red Mountain. The sun had breached the horizon minutes before, and the Nord claimed to have wanted to watch it rise.

Genos had noticed new changes to his husband, then. It had been over twenty-four hours since Saitama last fed, and his abstinence was taking its toll. The cold light of dawn cast new shadows on his face, deeper hollows in thinned cheeks, new lines around his mouth and nose. His eyes burned with more fire than yesterday, red-rimmed and aglow, _hungry_.

Saitama had joked away his partner’s concern, as was his way. Genos knew; he was trying to stay in good humour – trying to soothe the mage’s worry. Even now, as they traversed the badlands at an easy pace, Saitama pointed out landmarks and told the blond anecdotes of his last visit here. His face was a brave one, forced optimism toward cleansing the Beast Stone and his own blood.

They passed a run-down cabin at the foot of a cliff, a ramshackle trading post half-buried by ash. Genos stuck close to Saitama, on high-alert for Reavers and ash hoppers – anything that might take advantage of his love’s weakened state. He knew that Saitama could still hold his own in battle: he was not frail, by any stretch of the imagination. Still … Genos dared not let his guard down.

The ground took on a slight incline, upward, to a small grove in the trees. Large spider eggs clung to one trunk, mummified corpses bound in silk at its base. Beyond, a fallen segment of Dwemer architecture lay in the dirt. Saitama gestured to the nearby Dwarven ruin from which it had fallen, led the blond over the hill and onto the first stretch of snow.

The muffled _crunch_ of it underfoot was a comfort to the Nord. It was familiar, a piece of home in this barren wasteland. He steered their course more to the west, looking for the path he knew would take them up through the mountains.

“I hope the pack talks to us,” he said, voice raised so that the blond would hear him above the dusty wind. “Last time I was here, they warned me away. Threatened to attack if I didn’t leave them alone.”

“They were territorial?” said Genos.

His tone came strained, tense. Saitama’s shoulders sank within his armour, and he held in a sigh. Genos had been on-edge all morning, and the Nord grew tired of telling him to relax.

“Guess so,” said Saitama. He spotted familiar clumps of glacial ice in the piled snow of the hillside, and used them to plot his route. Vegetation struggled to pierce the hoarfrost, fallen trees encrusted with rime. “I never actually spoke to them. Didn’t even know they were werewolves at the time. You’re the first one I ever met.”

“I see.”

Saitama led their course to the edge of the mountain, set a hand on the stone as he vaulted over its corner. He found the path, a natural swathe of soil and snow in the steep rocks. With a hopeful gesture, he steered Genos onto the trail and up the slope.

At the crest of the hill, he saw an outcrop of rock strung with icicles. This was Frostmoon Crag, concealed from view from everywhere else on Solstheim. Secluded, quiet. He smelled the warmth of those who lived beneath its shelter, the werewolf pack – seemingly unaffected by the Beast Stone. Their scents carried the inviting tang of Nord blood, sweetened by that of the beast.

The smell made him pause, halfway up the rise. He shrugged off the urge to massage his aching stomach, swallowed the saliva that welled up in anticipation. With a sharp exhale, to clear his nose, he turned back to Genos.

“You go on ahead,” he said. When Genos’s eyes flashed, he shrugged. “You’re like them, but something tells me they won’t talk to me.”

Genos’s stance drooped. “I … see,” he said again. He peered up the path to the mouth of the crag, then back at Saitama. “Then … please wait here. I will not be long.”

Saitama nodded with an offhand “Okay.”

The scrubby, piebald grass shivered as Genos traipsed up the slope. He did not like splitting up, for a myriad of reasons. He walked a hand along the rock wall, calf muscles protesting the gradient. The icicles on the underside of the outcrop looked almost like fangs, made the recess of the crag resemble a gaping mouth in the mountainside.

Midway through the climb, two figures rose into view over the peak.

They were both women – one upright, the other seated on a rock beside a low-burning lantern. The upright woman sported reddish hair while the other was blond, both dressed in light furs. Much of their skin was exposed to the cold, Nordic indifference in full effect.

Cautious, Genos paused on the hill. The blond woman gave a faint ‘harumph’ once she spotted him, while the redhead watched him dither as if sizing up prey.  When Genos started forward again, the redhead drew a dagger from her hip. She rushed to intercept him, and Genos stopped dead; he raised a hand, below shoulder-level, a signal that he meant no harm.

The woman squared off against him, poised in a fighting stance. “Hold, traveller,” she shot, teeth bared. Genos kept quiet, tried not to make any sudden movements. The woman rolled her shoulder in its socket, knife agleam. “You have no business here. Be on your way.”

Genos lowered his hand, but did not shift his eyes from the woman’s. They were silver, like his, sharp and wary. “I believe I do have business here,” he said.

The redhead scowled, but faltered. Her nostrils flared as she scented him, and Genos saw the precise moment that she caught a taste of his beastblood. The suspicion faded from her posture, and she stepped back in a smooth movement.

“Perhaps you do,” she said. She slotted the dagger back into her belt. “Forgive me. I’m Rakel, of the Frostmoon Pack. Welcome, brother.”

“Genos,” the mage introduced himself. He chanced a look at the blond woman; she had not moved from her perch, tankard in hand, aloof face creased with distaste as she stared him down. He could _smell_ her animosity.

“You chose a bad time to come to Solstheim,” said Rakel, and she crossed her arms over her bare stomach. “A dark power grips the land, channelled through the Beast Stone. It infects those of the beastblood. It took one of our own, Akar. He left to hunt near the Stone, and he … he didn’t come back. You should leave Solstheim, before it takes you, too.”

Genos paused upon learning of the enthralled werewolf. His insides chilled, but the thought of letting Saitama deal with the wizard alone made them tighten and squirm. “Why are you still here, then?” he said. “Why do _you_ not leave the island?”

Rakel looked at him as if she thought him mad. “This is our home,” she said. “We are the last werewolves on Solstheim, and this is our territory. No, the curse will pass. Until then, we stay here. Here, Hircine protects us.”

Genos focused on her, serious. “How?” he said. He ignored the blond woman’s impatient ‘tch’, though felt her piercing stare at last leave his cheek. With a hard swallow, and as neutral an expression as he could manage, he lowered his hood and took a step closer to Rakel. “Please. I travel with someone who can free the Beast Stone. We are on our way there now. I need to know how I can get near it without being … infected.”

Rakel’s lips thinned. She cocked back her head, arms tightening where they crossed her bust. She seemed to consider something for a long moment, her strong jaw backlit by the glow of morning. Genos rocked on his heels, the movement of wind drawing his eyes to the snowberry bush behind his fellow werewolves.

Abruptly, the blond woman set down her tankard and stood. She was bulkier than Rakel, more imposing, hardened by battle and strife. “I don’t trust you, whelp,” she said, stance wide. “You stroll up out of nowhere and say you can fix our problems? Where were _you_ when our brother was taken?”

Rakel fired a scowl at her. “Enough,” she hissed. She matched her packmate’s glare with equal hostility, then turned her back to face Genos. The blond woman strode off with a growl, over the far side of the hill and out of sight, fists balled. In her wake, Rakel sighed. “Please forgive Hjordis. She already lost her first pack to werebears, a long time ago. When Akar disappeared … these last few months have been stressful for her.”

Genos shook his head. “I understand.” On impulse, he glanced back down the slope. He saw no sign of Saitama, but trusted that the Nord would not break his word to stay nearby. He addressed Rakel. “I must know. What did you mean, when you said Hircine protects you from the Beast Stone?”

Rakel pursed her lips. She then jerked her head, pointed with her chin to something over Genos’s shoulder. “Speak with Majni,” she said. “It’s not my decision.”

Curious, the blond turned around to follow her gesture.

Farther under the crag, so still that Genos had failed to notice him until now, was another werewolf. This man looked older than both women, though not greying, perched on a low boulder by an unlit campfire. He was garbed in heavier clothes than the others; he sported a hat and beard, hardy furs better suited for the snow. His face creased in a soft smile when Genos at last spotted him.

At Rakel’s prompting jerk of the head, Genos approached the man. The shape of the crag blocked much of the already blotted sunlight, the recess gloomy and shielded from bad weather. Animal bones and skulls perched about the rocks beside the stranger, bedrolls on the ground and plates of meat near the campfire.

The stranger did not rise, but watched Genos near with both hands on his knees. Something about him reminded the blond of Kodlak Whitemane, the Harbinger and elder werewolf of Whiterun’s Companions.

The man sat up. “I am Majni,” he said, in a thick Nordic accent, “alpha of the Frostmoon Pack. Welcome, brother.”

Genos stopped short of the rocks, unsure if he should sit. He smelled the authority on the stranger, potent beastblood. He answered with a nod, attentive when the alpha – Majni – shuffled in place.

“I overheard your conversation,” said Majni. His face grew grave, stern lines in his brow. “You think you can help us, and lift the curse from this land?”

Genos stood straighter, no-nonsense. “My partner is Dragonborn,” he said. “He can Shout to free the Beast Stone from its enchanter’s magic.”

Majni frowned, suspicion bright in his silvery eyes. “Dragonborn?” he said. “Hm. I remember rumours from years ago, that the Dragonborn had made his way to Solstheim. But, he disappeared. Are you saying that he has returned?”

“Yes,” said Genos. He swelled with pride, satisfaction in his husband’s legendary deeds. “He defeated Alduin, the World Eater. Now, he has come to aid Solstheim once again.”

The alpha hummed, and drummed his fingers on his knees. “Be that as it may,” he said, “I do not know you, stranger. I _do_ know, that going near the Beast Stone is unwise. You are not part of my pack, brother, so I cannot order you to stay away from it. Instead, I can only advise you … and pray that you heed my warning.”

Genos sidestepped to a boulder across from the alpha, and sat down. The cold of the rock bled through his clothes, though dulled by the thread of the furs. “How have you three resisted the Stone’s influence?” he said.

Majni considered. “There is a place, on Solstheim,” he said. “An old sanctuary for those of the beastblood, buried in the ice. Snowclad Ruins.”

Genos leaned in, his whole focus on the alpha. Ash- and snow-flecked wind brushed by the mouth of the crag, the groan of battered trees. The breeze brought with it Saitama’s scent, its source still nearby. It soothed the mage somewhat.

“There is an altar there, a shrine to Hircine,” said Majni. “When we first heard of what was happening to the werebears, our pack went there to pray to the great Huntsman. He gave us his blessing. It protects us from the Stone’s dark magic.”

Genos wrinkled his nose. “So I must go to this altar,” he said, “and pray to Hircine?”

Majni seemed to tense. His thick fingers dug into the fur over his knees, jaw grim-set. “Be warned, boy,” he said. “Hircine’s blessing will help you resist the Beast Stone’s power, but it will not make you immune to it. Its sway will still affect you, if you linger too long. Akar dawdled, the fool, and it corrupted him. You must be quick in your business, or the Stone will poison you as well.”

Genos sat back, exhaled long and slow through his nose. As much as he loathed the idea of asking a favour of Hircine … he would set aside his hatred of the Daedra for this. For now. Saitama needed him close; if this meant he had to swallow his pride, he would not complain.

He rose to his feet, brushed dust from his clothes. “Thank you,” he said. While not as unnerving as Apocrypha, this place made his hair stand on end. The scent of other werewolves, living wild off the land, grazed at his senses.

Majni folded his arms. “Good luck, brother,” he said. “I don’t know about this Dragonborn, but you seem to have faith that he truly can free the Beast Stone. Please, be cautious. If you save Akar, know that we will very much be in your debt.”

Genos looked to the redhead, Rakel, who stood watching from the far side of the crag. She gave him a small nod, though stayed rooted while Genos left the lair and headed back down the slope.

He found Saitama at the foot of the cliff, seated on his haunches in the dirt and snow. He did not seem to notice Genos’s presence at first, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his head down. Genos faltered, partway up the incline. The Nord looked exhausted, even from here, fingers pale where one hand squeezed the opposite wrist in a tight grip.

Genos took another step, careful. “Saitama?”

The man’s head snapped up, as if jerked from a dream, and his posture fell into something more relaxed. He focused on Genos and flashed a shadow of a smile, hood up but mask lowered. “What’d they say?”  he said.

Genos willed his anxious heart to settle. He skidded down the last stretch of the frozen slope, stopped beside Saitama while the Nord levered himself up from the ground. “They have the blessing of Hircine,” said the mage. “It helps them resist Nardri’s magic. There is an altar on Solstheim, in a place called Snowclad Ruins. I must pray there.”

The tired haze cleared from Saitama’s fiery eyes. “Pray … to Hircine?” he said. “Is that … I dunno, Genos. Is that what you really wanna do?”

The blond clenched his teeth. “No,” he said, “but I must. I refuse to leave your side.”

A swirl of emotion passed over Saitama’s face. The final glimpse was one of thanks, apologetic but grateful. He brushed off his armour and faced the crag, and pointed.

“Snowclad Ruins is … that way,” he said. “Southeast a bit. If we cut over the mountains, we can get above it. It’s not far.”

Saitama’s shortcut took them past the crag again, earning wary looks from the local werewolves. They strafed along the hillside, toward some kind of sacrificial altar in the rocks. Ice grew more dense on the stone, compact snow likewise thicker underfoot. Saitama steered them north, through a natural channel carved in the glacier. Fresh powder began to fall – white, to Genos’s amazement – the ice rendering all in soft shades of blue. The ground climbed again, a steeper angle than before, and both travellers slipped in the slush more than once. They moved hand in hand, supporting each other on the rough terrain.

Ahead, over the peak, Genos saw some kind of makeshift watchtower. “Rieklings,” was all Saitama said, and he motioned for the blond to stay low.

Genos complied, puzzled.

A crude bridge had been erected on the far side of the mountain, towers and shacks too small for regular people. The resident Rieklings – small, blue-skinned, goblin-like creatures – patrolled the walkways, armed with spears and hideous fanged faces.

Saitama led his partner along the peak, slinked low and close to the rock wall, avoiding detection. They edged around the slippery stones, half-blinded by snow, circled east along the summit. Genos saw the silhouette of Red Mountain through the flurry, a great blue-grey shape on the horizon, spewing ash. He clutched Saitama’s cape to keep from getting separated, heads bowed and hoods raised against the blizzard. The cold bit at their exposed faces; Saitama was all but immune to it, but Genos felt its full fury.

This was colder than Skyrim, for certain – almost as cold as the magical barriers that had blocked their path up the Throat of the World. Genos closed his eyes against it, movements slowed and nose stinging.

Saitama had to yell to make himself heard over the roar of the wind. “Careful, here!” he said.

Genos peeked out through his blustered fringe, and saw that they were approaching the edge of a cliff. Saitama motioned him forward, sure-footed, and carefully climbed over the jagged precipice. The drop was not sheer, but high. Below, through the whiteout, Genos traced the outline of a small lake. Its shape was too square to be natural, one edge carved into a smooth wall. A raised channel of stone, manmade, protruded from the cliff on which they stood. The structure funnelled water into the pool, a recess in the rock face on its right. Genos spotted a plinth within the alcove, a platform that housed a low altar.

A controlled skid down the cliff landed the travellers on the left of the outlet. It resembled a bridge from the ground, soaked from the spray of crashing water. Smears of blood stained the snow, gouge-marks and scratches from oversized claws.

Saitama rubbed at his ear, through the veil of his hood, and peered around. “Huh,” he said, free hand folded on his hip. “There used to be werebears here. Guess Nardri took them all.”

Genos could smell their echo, fur and rage and raw meat caught between sharp fangs. The stink differed to that of werewolves, somehow wilder, rustic. He ducked under the archway, nose wrinkled as he approached the alcove in the cliff face.

The altar was familiar, elaborately engraved, surrounded by offerings to the Prince of the Hunt. Skulls and spines edged the shrine, animal pelts, a dead fox on the ground and a slain rabbit on its surface. The carvings were identical to those of the plinth in Glenmoril Coven – the cave where he had once tried to cure his lycanthropy.

The snow creaked beneath his boots, a muffled but resounding _crunch_ as he came to a stop before the altar. The formation of the cliff created an air pocket in the blizzard, a bubble of shelter from the storm. Genos lowered his hood, raked back stray locks of hair from where they jabbed at his eyes. He sensed Saitama’s presence behind him, felt a sympathetic gaze on the back of his neck. When he turned, he found the Nord with both hands clutched tight around the straps of his rucksack.

“You, uh …” said Saitama, awkward. “You need me to do anything?”

The mask hid much of his face, but Genos read the uncertainty in Saitama’s hunched shoulders and darting eyes. “No,” said the blond. “Just … stay close.”

Saitama nodded.

Genos faced the shrine again, gathered up his cloak, and knelt down.

He had never been one for prayer. Even before he lost his family, when he still lived as a carefree child in High Rock, he chose not to worship the pantheon of his people. He would show his respects for the deceased, and asked for the guidance of fair Kynareth when hunting – but he did not feel compelled to give tribute to the gods. He did not have the urge to bow at every shrine he crossed, to sing praises or work a prayer into his daily routine.

The Daedra were not gods, in his eyes. Some people worshipped them, he knew, sometimes even whole cultures or races. The Orcs viewed Malacath as their creator-god, for example. Others offered themselves or their talents in exchange for the Princes’ favour. Pureblood vampires, for instance, acquired their powers in a heinous ritual to Molag Bal – a ritual that few survived.

The Daedra were evil where the Divines were benevolent. They were self-centred, cruel, not deserving of devotion. Hircine was one of the few whose motives could be viewed as neutral – but even in his beastblood, Genos felt no desire to worship the great Huntsman.

He let the moan of the wind wash over him, felt its echoes ruffle his hair and gather his clothes. The skull of a deer slumped in the snow before the shrine, stripped of its antlers. Genos stared into its empty eye sockets for a while, as if to interrogate it, then shut out the world.

How did one pray to a deity they hated?

Hircine would be smug, he knew. The Prince had beaten him, in a way, when Genos chose not to purge himself of the wolf. He clenched his fists on his knees. He was not ashamed of his choice; being a werewolf made him stronger, but he had not kept the blood to appease Hircine. His reasons were selfish. The strength he found in the moon helped him protect the man he loved, and he could never feel regret for that.

He sought Hircine’s help, here and now, so that he might continue to protect Saitama. If the Nord went off alone to free the Beast Stone, and something happened to him….

If Genos were not there to help, because he was afraid of being corrupted….

He unwound where he sat, drew in a deep breath. The scent of snow and blood filled his lungs, the scent of _Saitama_. He smelled the earth, the water, the sky; ash and rock and cold. Blackness pressed in on his closed eyes, a phantom of pressure from the shrine’s magic.

He would do anything for his husband, even make a deal with the Daedra. If that made him a hypocrite, when he had scolded Saitama’s choice to ask help of Hermaeus Mora … so be it.

The pressure of magic shifted. Genos sensed its pull, attuned through the power in his Breton blood. The wind brushed in, coaxed a shiver from the mage as it swept up his back. He opened his eyes to a shimmer of light, adrift in an odd sense of peace, and watched as a tall, ghostly figure emerged from the rock wall behind the shrine.

The figure held the appearance of a man, dressed in ceremonial furs that left the chest exposed. Instead of a human face, the spirit’s head was that of a skeletal deer. Its antlers stretched wide above muscular shoulders, a long and deadly spear clasped in its ethereal hand.

Hircine stood proud, planted the base of the spear in the snow with a _thud_ that carried through the mountains. Bright energy swirled from the Prince’s form, body translucent and pale. The empty eye sockets turned to Genos, who half-rose from his seat on the ground.

“You have arrived,” said the Prince. The jaw of the skull did not move, but Genos heard a grin in the rough voice that left it. “Again we meet, hunter … as I knew we would.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/gSpaJzjt18o)
> 
> **Context notes:**  
>  * The **Frostmoon Pack** are the only werewolf pack remaining in Solstheim. If the player is a werewolf, their leader will sell special rings that boost lycanthropic abilities.  
>  * **Rieklings** are small, hostile creatures found on Solstheim. They have a tribal culture reminiscent of Stone Age society.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	9. Bloodline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it’s been a hot minute since the last update, here’s a quick recap. Apologies for the delay!
> 
> _On the night of his and Genos’s wedding, Saitama became a vampire (he was infected in battle three days before). A wizard named Falion revealed how to cure Saitama – but by the time they filled the Black Soul Gem needed for the ritual, Falion had left town. While waiting for Falion to return, Saitama received a letter: Dreyla Alor, one of their wedding guests, was killed. He and Genos travelled to the island of Solstheim to investigate, with Saitama feeding from Genos after being injured by vampire-hunters. It seems Solstheim has been overrun by werebears; on their way to see Neloth, a powerful wizard, the newlyweds were attacked by a were-Daedroth. With the help of a Black Book, the two sought answers from the Daedric Prince Hermaeus Mora. Mora explained how a sorceress named Nardri Vereleth corrupted the Beast Stone, making werebeasts her slaves. Nardri was Neloth’s old apprentice; she stole a Black Book from him after he banished her, and is likely building a werebear army to take revenge. As Genos is a werewolf himself, he can’t go near the Beast Stone: the un-enchanted werewolves of Frostmoon Crag revealed that Genos must obtain Hircine’s blessing to resist Nardri’s control. We left off with Genos praying to Hircine, and the Huntsman of the Princes answering his summons…._

*

 

A cold wind gathered loose powder from the steps of Snowclad Ruins. The Prince of the Hunt seemed untroubled by the chill – there yet elsewhere, in a plane between the realm of mortals and Oblivion. Stray clumps of ash passed clean through his translucent image, proof of his ghostly nature.

Genos scrambled to his feet. The last time he had communed with Hircine, the Prince had possessed the corpses of slain prey. First a stag, then a werewolf. To see the Huntsman in such a form, macabre and threatening, raised hairs on Genos’s neck.

It was the shrine, he knew. Hircine’s power was focused here. Here, the Prince could manifest on Nirn – not solid enough to interact with the world, but enough to cast a hungry shadow over those who worshipped him.

Behind Genos, Saitama tensed at the waterside. He did not like this one bit, expected trickery. Daedra could not be trusted. His eyes burned bright behind his Nightingale mask, like embers while he awaited the Prince’s demands.

Hircine set a hand on the hip of his ceremonial furs. A rope of teeth and fangs hung from his wrist, his air superior and satisfied. “Your fealty is precious to me,” said the demon to the mage. “Though perhaps, I sense it may be … insincere.”

Genos felt his beastblood stir, a feud of instinct and disgust. He bit back a retort, afraid Hircine would not grant his request if he showed disrespect.

Instead, he swallowed his pride. In silence, Genos sank to his knees in the snow.

Saitama balled his fists at the sight. He hated to see his husband this way, grovelling before a Daedra. Self-loathing embittered the Nord. If he had been more careful and not contracted vampirism, they would have lifted the Beast Stone’s curse already and returned to Skyrim. They should have been honeymooning, somewhere beautiful – not selling their souls on dirty, stuffy Solstheim.

This disease was ruining everything.

Hircine cocked the horned skull of his head, smug where he loomed over Genos.

The blond steeled himself. “I seek your aid, my Lord,” he said. “We can free your werebears from the curse of the witch who corrupted the Beast Stone. But, as a werewolf, I cannot go near the Stone myself – else it will curse me, too. Please … I need the protection of your blessing.”

Hircine hummed. “This wizard is no base prey, pup,” he said. “She poisoned the minds of my young with her arts, so I sent my fosterling to hunt her down. Now, she mocks me with it! My greatest creation, snared like a rat in a trap. How _dare_ she.”

Saitama blinked. “The were-Daedroth?” he said. He had forgotten all about it, their violent encounter in the ashlands.

The aspect of Hircine turned its skeletal head toward him. Saitama swallowed hard, more unsettled by Genos’s warning glance than Hircine’s cool aggression.

“Beware, Dragonborn,” spat the Prince. “I smell it on you, the fetid stink of Herma-Mora. You have served him in the past, but it would be unwise to favour him over me. My vengeance is swift, and my children will thirst for _your_ blood if you betray me.”

The venom in Hircine’s threat made Saitama shiver.

Genos stiffened where he knelt, and spoke up to lure the Prince’s attention from his husband. “Nardri has enthralled the were-Daedroth, as well as the werebears?”

Hircine glowered at Saitama a moment longer, then returned that eyeless stare to Genos. “No,” said the Prince. “It is not beast enough for her to corrupt, more Daedra than moonborn. Her magic cannot infect it. So instead, she has sealed it away – trapped it, within her lair.”

Genos pushed to his feet. Clumps of snow fell from his heavy clothes, expression set as he stared the ghostly figure down. Hircine lifted his spear as Genos rose, and swung its sharp tip out to point at the mage.

“When you free my children,” snarled the Huntsman of the Princes, “tear the skin from the body of their mistress. Claim Nardri’s soul in my name. Promise me this, and I will grant you all the protection I can against her sorcery.”

Saitama opened his mouth to protest – hoping to avoid more murder – but Genos spoke over him. “You have my word,” said the blond, voice firm. Saitama’s shoulders sank, lips pressed in a thin line.

Hircine lowered the spear, contemplative. “I witnessed your battle with my were-Daedroth,” said the Prince. “You proved yourself a worthy hunter. And so, I give you this honour. Go forth, pup, with my blessing.”

Like an exiled spirit, the Huntsman vanished – returned to his plane of Oblivion.

A stray breeze jostled Saitama’s hood. He did not hide his displeasure toward the deal, let it smoulder in his stare as Genos faced him. Genos made to speak mid-turn, but his husband’s expression seemed to catch him off-guard. The blond dropped his gaze, tugging at his own hood to shield his insecurities.

“We should head to the Stone,” said Genos. His voice held such discomfort that Saitama could smell it on his breath. “I do not know how long the blessing will shield me from Nardri’s magic. We should not delay.”

Saitama swallowed with difficulty. “All right.”

They retreated under the shrine’s archway, and across to a set of steps that rose out of the abandoned sanctuary. The climb continued over a steep hill, one that split the ruins from a Riekling settlement to the west. Tense in their silence, the travellers skirted around the crude village and its goblin-like residents. They skidded down the other side of the mountain, into a familiar fissure in the glacier. Genos recognised it as the same passage they had followed to reach the werewolves of Frostmoon Crag.

From here, Morrowind’s Red Mountain loomed on the southern horizon. They turned east, still navigating jagged rocks, course set for some kind of pointed archway up ahead. Its structure reminded Genos of Apocrypha’s architecture. More platforms and arches grew from the surrounding hills, some unfinished and framed by wooden scaffolding. Saitama explained this as a temple to Miraak, the first Dragonborn.

Genos could not help but notice the coarse edge to his husband’s tone.

“Are you…” said the mage, abruptly, once they had climbed onto the flat stone of the temple grounds. “Are you angry with me?”

The rhythmic padding of Saitama’s footfalls stopped. Genos fell still behind him, pensive, clothes flowing in the breeze. He heard the shimmer-shift of snow and ash, and realised how different Solstheim sounded to Skyrim. It sounded _lonely_ , no wolf howls or birdcalls on the wind.

In a rustle of leather, Saitama turned to face his partner. Figure-hugging as it was, Genos decided he did not like the Nightingale armour. It hid Saitama’s face, hid the emotions he allowed only Genos to see. In front of no-one else would Saitama grin or cry, and that damn mask robbed the blond of those precious gestures.

Saitama’s burning eyes pinned Genos’s. “What’re you doing, kid?” he said. “A deal with Hircine? Are you out of your mind?”

Fear shook Genos’s chest. He stepped forward, hand pressed over his quickening heart. “If I am to stay by your side,” he said, “I need his protection. Without it, I would risk losing my mind to the Stone’s curse. You know that.”

To the mage’s consternation, Saitama bristled. “You could’ve stayed behind,” he said. “You don’t have to come with me. Don’t you trust me to go off alone?”

“Of course I trust you,” Genos said at once. He closed what was left of the distance between them, and took Saitama’s gloved hands in his own. “Never doubt that.”

The cloth over Saitama’s mouth stretched, as if he were pouting behind it. Genos tightened his grip, fought the urge to rip off the mask and search his face unhindered.

“I just …” said Genos. The words left him softer than before, more tender, exposed. “I worry what might happen if you are injured when I am not with you.”

Through the mask, he heard the Nord sigh. “I was alone for a _long_ time before I met you, Genos,” he said. “I can look after myself.”

Genos shook his head fiercely. “I know,” he said. “But even you can be caught by surprise. What happened before, with the Dawnguard … I could not stand to see you in such agony again.”

Saitama looked away.

He remembered the pain, the feel of his own flesh on fire. Until now, he had only thought of the Dawnguard attack from his own perspective. He had not thought how his near-death might affect _Genos_.

Saitama refused to picture it the other way around, with their roles reversed. He had seen Genos cut open before, had watched him writhe as the spirit of the wolf ripped its way out of him. Indeed – when they first met, Genos had been assaulted and was bleeding out in the wilds. Even before they knew each other, Saitama hated watching Genos suffer … so _of course_ his husband would feel the same way now.

Saitama let the muscles in his neck go slack. His head fell forward, brow bumping against Genos’s shoulder. “I love you,” he said. It felt like an age since he last spoke those words. Too long. He felt his husband’s mechanical hand slide up his back, before lips pressed a kiss into the cloth over his cheek.

“I love _you_ ,” said Genos, “always.”

Saitama gave the blond’s mismatched hands a squeeze, and stepped back. He hoped Genos would sense his fond smile behind the mask. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s free the werebears.”

The blizzard eased as they navigated the temple exterior. The skeletons of long-dead dragons protruded from the ashy earth, bones splayed prone. Saitama cut through the structures, ignored the aftertaste of magic that still haunted the unfinished buildings. He led the way down a slushy path on the hillside, watching for ash hoppers.

Genos followed quietly. It was almost over, he told himself. They would return to Skyrim soon, cure Saitama, and take their honeymoon. They would resume their life together, happy and well.

He felt no different from receiving Hircine’s blessing … save for a new sense of dread.  The Prince had asked him to kill before – but it had been a trick, a test. Genos hoped this deal would play out the same way. And if not, he would find some loophole wherein he did not have to murder the sorceress. Killing her would seal his fate as Hircine’s plaything, and betray all Saitama had taught him.

As they moved, Genos felt an odd _pull_ at the back of his mind. They must have been getting close to the source of the curse.

Saitama paused beside the spine of another dead dragon. He pointed ahead, over a dip in the knoll of dead trees and snowberry bushes. The ocean stretched far in the distance, grey and foggy. “There it is,” he said. “The Beast Stone.”

Genos followed the line of his finger, and spotted a carved pillar through the bare trees. Wooden scaffolding clung to its side, the monument sunk into a large basin of water. Saitama led him toward it, descending the slope over loose rocks and ice.

As they neared flat ground, Genos spied – smelled, first – werebears nearby. Three of them stood gathered around the Stone, hunched in the snow as if waiting for something. All muscle and unkempt fur, the hulking creatures made his wolf form look almost slender. They seemed restless, noses twitching madly.

While Genos eyed his fellow beasts, Saitama noticed an elf at the base of the Stone.

She was a Dunmer, a Dark Elf, grey-skinned with short black hair. Her clothes hung threadbare, the hems of her trousers pulled up where she stood in the knee-deep water. Saitama tugged Genos aside upon spotting her, and stooped with him to hide amongst the trees of their hill.

The two watched the elf a moment. She appeared to be worshipping the monument, both hands pressed to the rock, her touch reverent as she traced the ancient carvings. She muttered something, and yellow light began to trail from her bare fingertips. The spell coiled like smoke against the Stone, tendrils of Magicka. The runes in the rock glowed with it, channelled the curse in a web of cracks across its surface.

As the elf poured her magic into the Stone, Genos felt another nudge at the back of his mind. This pull was stronger, like whispers in a foreign tongue. He shook it off, shuddered. His shiver rocked the branches of their hiding place. Leaves rustled, loose snow plopping heavy to the ground.

“That must be her,” he whispered. His chest pushed on Saitama’s back when he inhaled, huddled together amid the icy branches. “Neloth’s apprentice, Nardri. I expected someone … older.”

Against him, Saitama nodded. He breathed deep, sampled the wintry air to taste the scent of the sorceress’s blood. She did not smell like a werebeast herself, no obvious link to Hircine. Her scent was familiar, though, but he could not place why.

“We should hurry,” Genos urged. “Hircine’s blessing will not protect me forever.”

Saitama at last tugged down his mask, exposing his gaunt face to the soot-stained wind. His expression was guarded, sallow skin lined with veins and shadow. “You’re not gonna keep your deal with that double-crosser,” he said, “are you?”

Genos frowned. “Not if I can help it,” he said, eyes on the three loitering werebears. “I do not wish to kill this woman when there is a chance she can be reasoned with.”

Saitama felt pride at that. His husband understood mercy at last, it seemed.

Before he could reply, something huge crashed through the trees of their hiding place. It tackled Genos flat, landed atop him with a terrible snarl – a fourth werebear, until now unnoticed, all hair and teeth and predatory rage.

The monster seized a mouthful of Genos’s furs and shook. Saitama grabbed without thinking – Genos’s collar in one hand and the bear’s flat face in the other – and wrenched the brute off his husband. A chunk of Genos’s clothes tore away when Saitama ripped him free, the werebeast shoved back with a grunt. The creature let out a deafening roar, and the newlyweds fell together out of the broken trees.

As her murderous pets lumbered to face the noise, Nardri jerked back from the Stone. A pendant bounced on her throat with the motion, shaped like an anvil or axe-head. The magic at her fingertips faded, her scarlet eyes blown wide by shock.

In the instant their stares met, Saitama recognised her.

He and Genos had seen her days ago, when they first arrived in Raven Rock. She was in the market, talking to Adril Arano. The sorceress fell still and the Amulet of Talos settled over her chest, anger overtaking the surprise on her thin face.

Nardri flung a hand toward the intruders. “Get rid of them!”

Like unleashed hounds, the three bears below lurched to attack. They charged with such force behind their paws that Saitama felt the earth _move_. They were larger than werewolves, stockier, blunt snouts stretched around too many teeth. They barged into one another, shouldered between trees at horrifying speed.

Saitama pushed Genos aside, out of harm’s way as the bear that attacked them pounced again. Its claws dug into the snow, breath foul and eyes like hot coals. Another brute swiped at Saitama while a third barrelled on – circled around to get behind Genos, before he could conjure handfuls of lightning.

Dodging a meaty swing, Saitama’s gaze flicked to Nardri. The elf had stepped out of the pool that edged the Beast Stone, and collected her cloak from a nearby stack of rocks. She stood with her back to the battle, guard down, as if confident her slaves would destroy the passersby without issue.

How naïve.

Saitama ducked under another clawed blow, and glanced to Genos. The mage was holding his ground, admirably; his magic split the air with thunder and light, bolts of raw power like a maelstrom from his palms. Thinking him safe, Saitama ran for the Beast Stone.

He darted down the hill at high speed, and blustered straight past Nardri. His tailwind knocked her into a stumble, but he did not stop. Instead he filled his lungs, mouth open before he even skidded to a halt, and Shouted.

“ _Gol!_ ”

Golden power exploded from his mouth. The runes burst on the surface of the pillar, the glow of Nardri’s magic expelled from the rock like a spray of fine mist. The Stone fell dull, lifeless, no trace of her curse left behind. Saitama staggered when the breeze of his own run caught up to him, and slid to a stop at the edge of the pool. He then turned in place – ignoring the startled elf – and peered up the slope toward his partner.

The guttural snarls and _crack_ s of Genos’s lightning had ceased, violence replaced by heavy silence as the werebears stopped dead around him. They paused as if dazed, one sniffing the air while another buried its nose in the snow. Between them all, Genos straightened up. He looked windswept but his face shone bright with victory, warm as he smiled down at Saitama.

Movement.

Saitama caught Nardri by the wrist, stopped her sneak-attack cold. Her conjured dagger hung before his face, spitting purple energy. Her other fist was balled, empty where she faltered in his grip. She clearly had not expected him to stop her. Vaguely, Saitama was taken by how _thin_ she was. He felt the bones of her arm under his fingers, her hair buffeted and face blank with surprise. She smelled soft, like lilies and lavender, the ash-crisped honey of Dunmer blood.

Nardri overcame her shock quickly. Saitama watched her expression harden, saw fire bloom in her empty palm as she made to tug herself free.

Saitama’s breath caught. _Fire_.

He released her in a panic, and leaped back before she could burn him. He became suddenly aware of the cold air on his face, of his proximity to the scaffolding and rocks that edged the Beast Stone. He heard Genos call out to him, saw the blur of the blond’s approach in his peripheral vision.

He watched Nardri turn her head toward the Stone, still in a fighting stance with flames crackling in her palm. She opened her mouth, and cried out.

“ _Gol!_ ”

Golden light rushed from Nardri’s lips. It enveloped the pillar, spider-webbed along its surface to fill the runes like before. Her curse once again gripped the Stone, pulsed like magma through the veins of the rock.

At once, Saitama heard the werebears howl in something like pain. He saw Genos hunch in his peripheral vision, affected but not controlled. Nardri turned to Saitama again in aggressive triumph, an echo of her Voice still thrumming in his mind.

She was Dragonborn.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/53Efo-S6XI0)
> 
> **Context notes:**  
>  * _Gol_ is the first word of **Bend Will** , a Shout made available in the _Dragonborn_ DLC. Meaning "Earth", it allows the Dragonborn to purge the All-Maker Stones on Solstheim during the quest "Cleansing the Stones".
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	10. Hunter and Hunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Content warnings –_ blood

*

 

Golden magic pulsed through the Beast Stone, like veins of molten iron in the rock. Its runes shimmered behind a film of ice, throbbing with the willpower of the one who had cursed it.

A vast lake hugged the cliff on which the Stone stood. Mist veiled the water, stirred by the ashland’s dry winds. They carried the snarls of the werebears that surrounded Genos on the hill, caught his gasp when he realised what the witch truly was.

Just as shaken, down beside the Stone, Saitama shielded his eyes from the dust. He was stunned, transfixed as Nardri squared up to him across the soot-stained snow.

Nardri Vereleth – another Tongue. Another Dragonborn.

She was taller than Saitama, slender beneath her ragged clothes. Spite and pride twisted her thin, young face. He was drawn to her red eyes, a deep shade common to the Dunmer, intrigued by the soul he saw behind them.

It was the soul of a dragon, like his – an eternal flame, trapped in mortal flesh.

Saitama stared with mouth agape. He felt his still heart twitch, a quiet thrill in his cold veins. Through the reflex shock, he realised he did not want to fight this woman. Instead, he wanted to scold her – ask why she would abuse her Voice this way.

Those born with the dragon blood held phenomenal power, but they were not bound to serve the gods. They could use their gifts however they saw fit. For Genos, Saitama chose ‘good’. Single-handed, he had slain Alduin and saved the world. Such strength should not be used for something as petty as revenge against _Neloth_.

Nardri did not rise from her battle stance. “You’re a vampire,” she said, sharp. The conjured dagger shimmered in her grip. “You used my magic just now. How?”

Saitama frowned. “I’m Dragonborn,” he said, confused by the question. “Like you.”

The elf narrowed her crimson eyes, suspicious. She did not drop her guard, knife, or handful of flames, still poised to fight.

Saitama squinted at her. Did she not even know who – _what_ – she was?

During his training, the Greybeards had not mentioned other Dragonborns. Nardri must have discovered her abilities after he did. Neloth said she claimed to have found a ‘great power’ once he banished her: this power must have been her Voice.

If so, Saitama almost understood her actions. He had learned discipline from the Greybeards, and their pacifist Way of the Voice. Without that, he could see himself growing too proud. It was easy to think yourself superior, to forget morals and integrity, when your very speech could move mountains. Maybe Hermaeus Mora was manipulating her, through the Black Book she had stolen. Neloth was a master wizard; if Nardri killed her former master in Mora’s name, the Prince would no doubt gain much precious knowledge from his soul.

“Look,” said Saitama, hands raised in peaceful gesture. “I don’t know how much _you_ know, about the Voice and all … but you’ve gotta stop messing with the Stone.”

Nardri bared her teeth. “Don’t dare tell me what to do,” she said. “I’ve no quarrel with you, sera. Return to the crypt from whence you came, and leave me be.”

Saitama shook his head. “No way,” he said. “You’re abducting the people of Raven Rock, enslaving werebeasts. One of them killed a friend of mine. It ends now.”

The wind picked up, an ominous moan. Nardri readied her dagger, raised her voice over the whipping of their cloaks. “You won’t stop me,” she shot. “ _Leave_ , Nord, or I paint the ash with your blood.”

Slowly, Saitama lowered his hands. He heard Genos shift his weight behind the wall of werebeasts, preparing for combat. “That’s not gonna happen,” he said.

Nardri leaned back, filled her lungs. Saitama braced, but her Shout was not an attack. It was a Shout he knew, Words he himself had learned here on Solstheim.

“ _Mul Qah Diiv!_ ”

Raw power burst before the elf. It swooped backward with a roar, over her shoulders – then returned, cloaking her body in blue-orange light. Rows of ghostly spikes and scales formed atop her clothes, magical armour, horns and spines giving her a dragon-like appearance.

With a battle-cry, Nardri charged.

Saitama blocked, the conjured blade sparking off his gauntlet. Nardri’s armour boosted her strength, so much that her strike almost drove Saitama to his knees. She had him at a disadvantage. The Nord staggered, threw himself in a roll under her outstretched arm to dodge her fireball. Its flames exploded in his footprints, scorched loose rocks as Saitama – now behind Nardri – rose and sucked in a breath.

“ _Mul Qah Diiv!_ ”

The same armour Nardri had summoned surged forth to envelop Saitama as well. He felt it bolster him, strength and speed, felt it lift the blur of hunger from his mind. Nardri whirled around in a spray of powder, slashing wildly. Saitama leaped back and the two Dragonborns squared off, stood their ground on opposite sides of the scaffolding that framed the Beast Stone. Saitama’s glowing form seemed to unnerve the elf, her fingers restless on the hilt of her dagger.

Halfway up the hill, Genos made to range-attack the sorceress from behind. Before he could cast, a werebear cut in front of him – blocked his view. He ducked under its meaty swing, and hurled a thunderbolt at it instead. The stink of burnt fur filled his nose, ears assaulted by growls from the other three beasts as they began to close in.

They were in the way, a barrier between him and Saitama. Normally, Genos would have been more concerned for himself – but as a vampire, Saitama was vulnerable. Genos had to get to him, help him if he could. He filled his mismatched palms with electricity, determined to fight his way through the furious bears.

Saitama glanced up the hill as the storm of the second battle began. In his distraction, Nardri dismissed her dagger and conjured a longer sword in its place. She gave Saitama no chance to talk her down, but flung herself forward with a yell.

Saitama ducked behind the scaffolding for cover. She swung again, and again he strafed. They circled the Beast Stone – he calmly, and she with rising annoyance as he kept the wooden platform between them. She was undisciplined, as Saitama had thought, all aggression and no finesse.

Patience lost, Nardri blasted the scaffold apart with a firebolt. Wooden beams rolled in all directions, thudding into each other as the elf lunged to stab Saitama. He dodged the thrust, grabbed her arm, and knocked the weapon from her grip. It clattered to the ground, and came apart like smoke. Before she could retort with a fiery slap to the jaw, Saitama seized her amulet of Talos by the charm and shoved her away. The cord snapped, the axe-shaped pendant still clutched in Saitama’s fist while Nardri stumbled away. She fell onto her rump in the dirty snow, and the glow of her ghostly armour faded.

Saitama stuffed the broken pendant inside his cloak. Without it, she was a fraction less dangerous – unable to Shout quite as often. As Nardri flailed to pick herself up again, he raised a hand to calm her. “Listen–”

The sorceress seemed not to hear him, one hand flying to her naked throat. Alarm paled her grey skin, panicking when she realised what he had done. She reversed in fear, and threw back her head.

“ _Vulkloah!_ ”

Saitama faltered, arm still outstretched. It sounded more like a cry for help than a Shout. He did not recognise the word – but had no time to dwell on it. Nardri summoned two new swords despite his peaceful gesture, and launched at him in a desperate whirlwind of blades.

No farther down the slope than before, Genos paused to pant. He had shrouded himself in a cloak of magical flames, burning any foe that got too close while he recovered his Magicka. The werebears circled, kept him pinned on the hill away from their master. They seemed in no hurry to kill him: their attacks were meant to tire, wasting his energy and time.

Anywhere else, Genos would not have complained – but the longer they stalled, the more he felt the corrupted Beast Stone pull at his mind. Hircine’s blessing would not last forever. _He had to reach Saitama._

When the fire of his cloak-spell burned out, Genos made a break for a gap in the bears’ formation. They closed the gap but he kept running, blasted one beast aside with all the lightning he could muster. He bounded down the hill, the pack in earth-shaking pursuit.

The moment he reached flat ground, one of the bears tackled him from behind. Genos landed hard on his front, pinned under the monster’s weight. Hearing the commotion, Saitama whirled around and yelled his husband’s name.

A terrible roar drowned his cry.

A shadow swept over the mountain, chased by wind that blustered Saitama’s cloak over his head. He fought it back – freed his vision in time to watch a huge bronze-black dragon slam down behind Nardri.

The impact jarred the cliff like an earthquake. Saitama realised Nardri’s call of ‘Vulkloah’ _had_ been a Shout: this behemoth’s name. She had called it to protect her.

Nardri retreated, ran beneath the dragon’s belly as it stalked toward Saitama on knuckled wings. Its fanged jaws fell open, splitting its demonic face in two. Saitama slipped in his haste to move, dove behind the Beast Stone moments before an inferno poured from the dragon’s mouth. The flames licked his elbows around the edges of the pillar, diffused by the dying glow of his magical armour.

Great, he thought, more fire.

To make matters worse, he caught a guttural growl behind the rush of flames. Two of the werebears had turned their sights on him, lumbering closer while a third pinned Genos down some distance away. The fourth bear, Saitama spotted up the hill; it lay still, unconscious and charred.

The one trapping Genos worried him most. The mage was facedown on the ice, motionless. Faintly, through the roar of flames, Saitama’s sharp ears caught strained little breaths from his husband. Was he injured?

The stream of fire ended at last. Saitama peeked around the blackened Stone, in time to watch Nardri climb aboard her dragon’s neck. She was escaping. He made to run out and stop her, but found his route blocked by a werebear. The brute reared up, slashed. Saitama swerved – straight into the massive paw of another bear.

This one made contact. It swiped Saitama clean off his feet and he was tossed aside, sent crashing through what remained of the scaffolding. He ploughed through the snow like a skipping stone, and came to rest at the base of a boulder.

Pain bloomed in his chest. The front of his clothes grew wet, heat that chilled rapidly in the sooty slush. Thunderous footfalls snapped him alert, and he rolled to evade another incoming blow. Heavy paws smashed into the earth, slammed where his head had been moments before.

As he struggled upright, the two werebears growling threats, Saitama pressed a hand to his sternum. It came away bloody, though not enough to concern him.

He was more concerned about how Genos had still not gotten up.

With a mighty screech, Nardri’s dragon took off in a cloud of ash. Saitama could only watch it climb higher, too winded to Shout. From her mount on its neck, the sorceress glared down at him. She tipped her head in triumph, and was carried away into the clouds.

A grunt dragged Saitama’s gaze from the murky sky. He saw the third werebear approach to join the other two, forming a ring around him. Worried, he looked back to where Genos lay. He spotted the mage in the same patch of snow, unmoving. Maybe the tackle had knocked him out. Cold with dread, Saitama started forward.

Once again, the werebeasts blocked him. All three lunged to attack – and Saitama lost his cool. With what little breath he had, he tore down his mask and Shouted.

“ _Faas!_ ”

The red flash that left his mouth struck each bear in unison. They stopped dead, flinched as if hit, dank fur crackling. The Shout was fear incarnate, left the monsters terrified and disoriented. Howling like wounded dogs, they fled. They lumbered in different directions, ploughed through spindly trees in their haste to escape.

Saitama broke into a run. He made a beeline for Genos, fell to his knees in the frozen filth beside his husband. He smelled no blood except his own, felt no broken bones as he swiftly but gently rolled the mage onto his back.

Genos whined when moved. His back arched, eyes screwed shut, and he curled onto his side with a weak kick. Saitama hovered over him, anxious while the blond covered his ears with mismatched hands.

Realisation dawned on Saitama. He looked to the Beast Stone, its runes still aglow with Nardri’s curse. The battle had dragged longer than it should have. Hircine’s blessing was wearing off. With a hard swallow, he moved to lift Genos in his arms.

“Let’s get you out of–”

Genos thrashed. Saitama whipped his hands away in alarm. He forgot that he was bleeding, forgot the disappointment of Nardri’s escape. Instead he remembered the days before Genos mastered his lycanthropy, how it felt in those horrified seconds before the curse claimed him.

This moment felt an awful lot like that.

Under the sway of the corrupted Beast Stone, Saitama’s husband shifted form. The animal overtook him and Saitama slowly stood, reversing with bated breath as the werewolf shook itself down. Its lips pulled back, ears flat to its head, a snarl in its throat as those fierce, feral eyes found the closest prey – Saitama.

He dared not move. The werewolf that was Genos rounded on him, clambered to all fours with hackles raised. He could taste its fury, saw saliva pool in the corners of its mouth at the scent of his torn flesh.

In the pause, Saitama saw a lone benefit to his vampirism: it would protect him from infection, should Genos bite or scratch him in this form.

The werewolf pounced. Saitama sprang away, skidding on the ice. He tried not to panic, tried to _think_. He could bend Genos’s will with a Shout, free his mind – but so close to the Beast Stone, he would be enslaved again in moments. He could try to hit both Genos _and_ the Stone in a single Shout … but lining the two up would be damn near impossible, with the wolf trying to maul him at the same time.

No, they could fix the Stone later. Right now, he had to get Genos away from it.

Saitama ran, up the slope toward the temple of Miraak. He heard paws pounding pursuit, heavy breaths through jagged fangs. Where Saitama swerved around any obstacles in his path, the werewolf charged headlong through them. It headbutted branches clean off the trees Saitama weaved between, the bones of ancient dragons snapping under its claws. It was smaller than its ursine cousins, but just as fast.

Perhaps faster.

Metres from the steps leading up to the temple, the werewolf leaped to tackle Saitama from behind. He felt its claws puncture his shoulders, hot breath on his neck. They rolled together through a cluster of trees, felling one and cracking the trunks of two more. Saitama managed to kick his attacker off before it could sink teeth into his throat, and the wolf spiralled away into a mound of snow.

Woozy, Saitama tottered when he picked himself up. He leaned against a tree for support, out of breath. He was losing more blood from the chest wound than he first thought. Stripes of flesh shone though the rips in his Nightingale armour, its cape still smoking from the dragon’s fire.

The werewolf forced its way out of the snowdrift. Unharmed, it glared at Saitama and let out a murderous growl. It then rose on hind legs, towered over him, all muscle and killing intent. Since Genos’s anger was seldom directed at him, Saitama often forgot how scary his husband was in this form. As the wolf stomped closer, he hoped they were far enough from the Stone; he had no running left in him.

“ _Gol Hah Dov!_ ”

The werewolf recoiled from the surge of golden light. It staggered, shook itself, then dropped to its knees, clutching its angular head in obvious pain. Tail curled under, the beast crashed to its elbows and howled.

The howl became a human yell, drawn-out and strained as the fur and fangs receded. Saitama likewise fell to all fours, dizzy and weak in the feeble sunlight. He crawled closer, unsure how else to help Genos fight off the Stone’s effects. The mage hunched double in the snow, gasps wet and laboured.

Saitama reached out, but Genos flinched from his touch with a yelp. He started to thrash, unable to shake off the witch’s curse. Saitama shuffled behind him and wrapped him in his arms, held the blond still to keep him from hurting himself.

“Easy, kid,” Saitama wheezed, as Genos writhed in his grip. He pressed his face into Genos’s nape, breathed deep of his scent. “Calm down. You’re okay.”

The mage continued to twist and kick, disoriented and confused. Saitama held him tight, soothed him as best he could.

The warmth of his body stirred Saitama’s hunger.

He was lost in it before he realised, drawn to the rapid pulse that tormented him through their clothes. He was _thirsty_ , insides suddenly burning with it. How had he not noticed before? It felt like years since he last fed. His teeth grew hot despite his better instincts, the ache of his open wounds impossible to ignore. It clouded his thoughts, stopped him from thinking straight.

The call of blood was too strong. It was _right there_ , already trapped in his arms. Intoxicating, irresistible. He needed it. Just a little, enough to heal himself. He shivered in anticipation, the sounds of Genos’s plight buried by the roar in his ears.

In that moment, he lost control.

The pain of the bite sparked in Genos’s mind. It made him gasp, parted the chaos in his head, and he opened his eyes. He remembered where he was, realised what had happened. At once he became aware of Saitama’s fangs in his neck, clamped on, feeding from him like a feral vampire. It _hurt_ , nothing tender in the embrace. Genos tried to pull away – but Saitama gripped him tighter, at the mercy of his hunger.

Genos held out for as long as he could, tried to let him take what he needed, but it had been too long. Saitama would drink him dry.

When he could bare it no longer, Genos conjured the smallest handful of embers he could manage. Tearful, he pressed his flaming palm to Saitama’s forearm.

The sting of fire brought Saitama to his senses. He hissed in pain – and wrenched himself back when he recognised the taste of blood on his mouth. He scrambled away from Genos, reversed into the closest tree with such speed that the impact dislodged clumps of snow from its branches. Genos covered the wound on his neck, yanked up the hood of his furs to hide it from his husband.

Neither man moved for a while, both panting from exertion. Saitama dug his fingers into the bark of the tree behind him, overwhelmed by shame. Genos stayed knelt in the snow, head pounding from mind-control and blood loss.

Shaky, Genos spoke first. “Are you all right?”

Saitama gulped. He could still taste it, feel it wet on his lips and chin. Mortified, he wiped his mouth on the back of one glove. The smell teased his senses, torturous.

“No,” he said. His half-healed wounds ached less than before, though this was not what he meant. He drew a shuddering breath, unable to look his spouse in the eye. “We can’t keep doing this. I’m gonna kill you.”

Genos struggled upright. He almost lost his balance in the slush, furs caked in ash. “We should return to Skyrim,” he said. “Falion will be back by now. He can cure you.”

Saitama looked up, startled. “What about Nardri?”

“She can wait,” said Genos, no-nonsense. The headache and neck pain made him impatient. “You cannot defeat her like this, and I refuse to watch you torture yourself any longer. We are _going_.”

His motherly tone brought a strange sense of relief over Saitama. It felt … almost normal. Quiet, he let himself laugh. “Yes, dear.”

Genos softened at that. He stepped forward, and – against Saitama’s efforts to shy away – took his husband in a careful hug. Despite the gesture, unpleasant thoughts nagged his mind. “Did I …” he said, a hair above a whisper. Saitama felt him squeeze, nerves and guilt tangible. “Did I hurt you?”

With a weary sigh, Saitama returned the embrace. The clawed cuts in his shoulders chafed at the movement, but he ignored them. “I’ve had worse,” he said. He patted the mage’s broad shoulder. “Don’t you go feeling bad, okay? You weren’t yourself.”

Against his cold cheek, he felt Genos smile. “Neither were you.”

Sheepish, Saitama broke the hug and stepped back. “All right,” he said. “Self-pity party over. Let’s get out of here.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/6gtAZIZQCuw)
> 
> **Context notes:**  
>  * _Mul Qah Diiv_ are the Words of **Dragon Aspect** , a special Shout available in the _Dragonborn_ DLC. It gives the Dragonborn huge boosts to power attacks, armour rating, and fire and frost resistance, also granting more powerful Shouts and a decrease in Shout recharge time. Its individual words mean Strength (Mul), Armour (Qah), Wyrm (Diiv).  
>  * An **Amulet of Talos** allows the Dragonborn to Shout more frequently, by decreasing their recharge time.  
>  * In Dovahzul, the language of dragons, **Vul-Klo-Ah** means Dark-Sand-Hunter.  
>  * _Faas_ is the first word of the **Dismay** Shout, scaring away most low-level enemies.  
>  * _Gol Hah Dov_ is the full **Bend Will** Shout. The second Word (meaning "Mind") allows the Dragonborn to control animals and humans, and the third word (meaning "Dragon") allows dragons to be controlled and ridden.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	11. The Break of Dawn

*

 

Falion told the couple that the ritual to cure Saitama would take place at sunrise.

They spent the night in Morthal’s inn. Saitama stayed awake while Genos slept, listening. Before he was undead, he had taken the sounds of nature for granted. He had noticed them, yes, but not paid as much attention as he could now.

In his last hours as a vampire, he took the time to truly _listen_ before his senses lost their supernatural sharpness.

The room swam with the song of crickets. Bullfrogs, burbling water, owls and other nocturnal birds he could not name. It was deafening, beautiful. He would miss this, Skyrim’s natural orchestra in such clarity. The soundscape changed as dawn neared; insects quieted, gradually, and different, more melodic birds began to warble.

He woke Genos once pink light tinged the sky outside their window, and the two made their way north out of town.

Saitama had never thought he would enjoy humid swamp air. There was so much moisture in it – unlike Solstheim, where ash clogged the nose and parched the throat. Mist shrouded the sodden grass, torchbugs drifting about spindly bushes.

He looked to the sky as they approached the spot where Falion had said to meet. Dawn was an eerie time, as strange as it was enchanting. Faint stars still pricked the lightening heavens, both moons veiled by cloud. He heard Genos crunching along behind him, mute. Unease filled Saitama’s chest, dread of the unknown.

Would it hurt, this ritual? Technically, he was already dead – would coming back to life be painful? He did not imagine it was an easy experience. His heart would have raced, had it still known how to beat.

Genos seemed to sense his distress. A cool metal hand came forward, wove its fingers through Saitama’s as they walked. The Nord glanced back to find his husband smiling, and felt at once reassured. With Genos here, everything would be all right.

Falion stood waiting by a mound of stacked stones, beside a footworn dirt path in the dewy undergrowth. The wizard beckoned, guided them deeper into the marsh. After several minutes of trekking, some kind of monument loomed through the trees. A ring of stone pillars, tall and uneven. Falion led the couple straight for it, and Saitama stared in wonder. He could smell nightshade, sweet amid the fungi.

A large, circular dais lay between the pillars. Rock, raised like steps from the earth, carved with a complex, symmetrical design. Falion instructed Saitama to stand at its centre. Reluctant, Saitama let go of Genos’s hand and climbed onto the platform. Though not as attuned to magic as they, even he sensed a strange energy here.

From the edge of the dais, Falion looked to Genos. “You have the gem?”

Locked on Saitama, Genos reached into his furs for the purplish crystal he had used to trap the soul of a bandit. It glowed softly, still warm three days after being filled. He handed the gem to Falion, who nodded and told the mage to stand back.

Saitama shuddered, uncomfortable centre-stage. “Let’s get this over with.”

“As you desire,” said Falion.

The wizard raised his arms. Uneasy, Saitama glanced to his husband. Genos’s smile had shrunk, sobered where he hovered beside Falion. Saitama looked away before the nerves could overwhelm. He blew out a sigh, clenched and unclenched his fists. How bad could it be?

Falion began the ritual.

“I call upon Oblivion realms,” he projected to the paling sky, “the home of those who are not our ancestors. Answer my plea!”

Mouth dry, Saitama became hyper-aware of his body. Falion stood facing him, yet did not seem to be talking _to_ him. The way Genos stared without a single blink did not ease his agitation. Saitama closed his eyes, tried to relax. He felt no change, only the heat of self-consciousness in the noisy swamp.

“As in death, there is new life,” Falion went on. “In Oblivion, there is a beginning for that which has ended. I call forth that power! Accept the soul that we offer!”

Saitama frowned. He felt … _something_. Clammy, almost. He opened his eyes and found the marsh dark at the edges, tunnel vision that left him light-headed. He widened his stance, unsteady and disoriented.

“As the sun ends the night, end the darkness of this soul,” Falion continued his recital. “Return life to the creature you see before you!”

Despite the solid rock under his feet, Saitama felt like he was floating. He could make no sense of the words: the wizard’s voice grew distant, swampland sounds fading in and out. He felt sick, a high whine in his ears and he could not _think_.

The world began to spin. Black closed in and he swayed, reached out to catch himself.

The next thing he knew, he was staring at the sky.

The angle told him he was on the ground, the clouds above a warmer blue than before. He must have passed out. Genos had an arm around him, supporting him, face whiter than Saitama had ever seen it. Saitama lay there for a second, confused.

A sharp ache filled his head. He sat up to cradle it, moaned through clenched teeth. It felt like the morning after too much Colovian Brandy. Genos rubbed small circles between his shoulder blades, soothed him while the pain faded.

At the edge of the dais, Falion crossed his arms. “The ritual is complete,” he said.

Saitama squinted up at him, bleary. The swamp seemed fuzzy, somehow, stimuli muffled as if sieved through cloth. He could not tell if he was still hazy from fainting, or if this was just how blurred his senses had been before becoming a vampire.

Genos squeezed his shoulder, brought him to focus. “How do you feel?”

Saitama considered. The pain was almost gone, including that of his wounds from the fight with Nardri and her pets. His old healing rate must have kicked in, no longer hindered by sunlight and thirst. He licked his dry lips – and noticed the greatest change. Fascinated, he explored his blunt teeth with curious fingers. It almost felt odd to be without fangs, despite the short time he had owned them.

“Okay, I think,” he said. He shivered and looked to Genos, whose broad shoulders sagged in relief. “Kinda cold, though.”

Falion nodded. “You’ll warm up as your blood starts to circulate again,” he said. He stepped back, aura satisfied. “You should eat something solid, and get plenty of rest. I wish you well, Dragonborn.”

With that, the wizard turned and started back toward Morthal.

Saitama watched him leave in something of a daze. He gave a start when Genos made to help him up, and gripped the blond for support as he found his feet. He hunched, willing the dizziness to ebb.

Genos hovered close. “You truly feel all right?” he said.

Saitama straightened up to find the mage peering deep into his eyes. Saitama let out a laugh. So close, he felt the urge to flick his spouse’s nose. “Shaky, is all,” he said. He kept a hand on Genos’s chest, and gestured to the dirt track Falion had taken. “Let’s go back to the inn, yeah? Solid food actually sounds like a great idea.”

Genos hooked an arm around his husband’s waist, and ducked his head under Saitama’s armpit to give maximum support. Saitama made to protest – he must have reeked of ash, if nothing else – but Genos spoke before he could complain.

“I was concerned.”

As they set off at an easy pace, Saitama leaned his weight against his partner. He knew Genos meant more than during the ritual; he had been on-edge for days, losing sleep from worry. He pressed a kiss to the blond’s cheekbone, nuzzled his jaw. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I’ve really put you through some stuff lately, huh?”

“You need not apologise,” said Genos, firm as they followed the trail. “We delayed the ritual for a good reason. You wanted justice for your friend. Now, you are cured. Once we deal with Nardri, we will take our honeymoon and begin our life together.”

Saitama flashed him a grin. “That’d be nice,” he said. They crossed the bridge that spanned the river at the edge of town, footfalls soft on the damp wood. Hoarfrost clumped under their soles, worn into the grain by traffic. “We’d need a house if we wanted kids, though. It’s big, but I don’t wanna ‘nest’ in my place on Solstheim.”

Genos blinked, bowing under a low tree branch. “You wish to adopt children?”

Saitama shrugged, the movement restricted with one of his arms draped over Genos’s shoulders. “Maybe … someday,” he said. His words had been a stab at humour, but now he caught himself considering. His role as Dragonborn might make settling down difficult, but … the idea of starting a family with Genos?

He pictured it. A simple homestead, somewhere remote. Maybe up by the lake near Falkreath. He’d always liked it there. Scenic, wooded, fresh air and sunlight. Him, Genos … watching over a sweet little girl and a rowdy boy. A dog or two, to keep the mudcrabs away. It was weird to think about, but … nice. Really nice.

Saitama shook off his daydream. “Would _you_ want to?” he said.

“I have never thought about it,” said the mage. Skyrim’s civil war had left many orphans on the streets, he knew. He squeezed Saitama’s waist, head down as they neared the inn. “But … it would be nice to have family again. Especially with you. I love you very much, Saitama.”

“You too, kid. And … thanks. For taking care of me.”

“Of course.”

As always, the Moorside Inn hosted few patrons; Morthal seldom saw visitors. Genos steered Saitama onto a bench at the fireside, and hurried off to order food. With a sigh, Saitama shrugged off his rucksack and explored his ruined armour. The leather remained wet in patches, bloody from the werebears’ mauling. As much as the thought of spending gold pained him, he would have to hire a tailor to fix it.

Genos returned with a plate of bread and vegetables. Ravenous, Saitama tucked in. Genos ate nothing himself, but circled back to the counter once Saitama started on his last carrot with no sign of slowing down.

When the mage returned with more food and drink for his husband, his expression was pensive. He set down the plate and sat, silent until Saitama grabbed a bread roll.

“I had a thought,” said Genos. Saitama grunted through a mouthful of potato, urging him to continue. “You said the Greybeards sensed when you first used your Voice, and called you to High Hrothgar. Could they have done the same for Nardri?”

Saitama grabbed a mug of ale to wash down his meal. “I thought of that, too,” he said. He tore off a smaller chunk of bread with his fingers, and squashed it into a tiny ball. “They didn’t say anything about another Dragonborn when I trained with them. Besides, Solstheim’s pretty far away. I dunno if their power reaches out there.”

He popped the morsel into his mouth. Genos did not flinch. “Then,” he said, “she would not know many Shouts, without a master. Who can teach her on Solstheim?”

“Nobody,” said Saitama. “Well, ’cept maybe Hermaeus Mora. He could’ve showed her stuff through the Black Book she took from Neloth. Otherwise … there aren’t many Word Walls on Solstheim. If she found them all, she’d know four Shouts total.”

Genos inclined his head, serious while Saitama took another huge bite of bread. “And you know all of them?”

Saitama licked his fingers clean. “Plus all the ones I got in Skyrim,” he said, and pushed away his empty plate. “She’s got nothing on me. Now I’m better, we’ll cleanse the Beast Stone in no time. The werebears’ll go back to normal, and the abductees from Raven Rock will … be okay. With luck.”

Genos’s expression was grim. “You should not dismiss her, Saitama,” he said. “I sensed much power in Nardri. She has great skill with magic, and an army of beasts at her disposal. Even without vampiric weaknesses, I doubt it will be an easy fight.”

Feeling well enough to jest, Saitama feigned offence at his husband’s words. “Hey, I beat Miraak, remember?” he said. “He was Dragonborn, too. The very first one, _way_ more experienced than Nardri. Didn’t have much trouble with him.”

“You only defeated Miraak with help from Hermaeus Mora,” Genos pointed out. He shifted closer on the bench, serious. “Dragonborns are powerful, Saitama. You, of all people, should know. You are the strongest man I have ever met, but we still know precious little about this sorceress. Please, do not underestimate her.”

Saitama took up his ale with a sigh. He appreciated his husband’s concern. Still … talk of the Daedric Prince of Knowledge gave him an idea.

Seeing that his husband had again run out of food, Genos touched a finger to the empty plate. Saitama gestured ‘no’ at the offer of another, cradling his drink. Genos stood, empty-handed, thought a moment, then pressed a kiss to Saitama’s brow.

“We have the room until the evening,” said the mage, when Saitama smiled at the warmth of his lips. “I will head to Whiterun to locate new armour for you. Please get some sleep while I am gone.”

Normally, Saitama would have objected to Genos wasting gold on him. He would rather his Nightingale gear be repaired – but his idea required time alone, so he nodded. Genos seemed surprised by his agreement, though did not question it. The blond left him with a tender squeeze of the shoulder; he crossed to the inn’s main door, and swept out of the building with a whip of his fur cloak.

Saitama stayed put a moment. He watched the door swing shut, debating. Genos would not like his idea one bit … but Genos was no longer here.

He grabbed his rucksack from the scuffed floor, and headed to the room where they had spent the night. He shut the door and barred it with a chair: the innkeeper might panic if she strolled by and saw him. Sitting himself cross-legged on the bed, back to the wall, Saitama unlatched his backpack and reached in.

This was indeed a terrible idea, but Genos had not been wrong at the table. The Saitama of years ago had only beaten Miraak with Mora’s help.

From the depths of his bag, he pulled out _Waking Dreams_ – the Black Book he had carried with him since Tel Mithryn.

The tome growled in his hands, hungrily, as if sensing his intent. It lay heavy on his thighs, heavier than he remembered. Saitama thumbed the battered cover with a frown, traced the worn leather in deep thought. This was a _terrible_ idea.

All the same, he let the book fall open in his lap.

At once, the words rose from its yellowed pages in glowing ribbons. They coiled around Saitama and he closed his eyes, allowed the tentacles to yank him through the book and into Apocrypha.

He blinked alert to a familiar scene, the same open space in Mora’s library where he and Genos had last stood. It was the high plateau, the platform where he defeated Miraak. The smell of paper and old books stagnated in his lungs, loose pages swirling at his feet. A reading pedestal loomed before him, framed by sharp archways and the skeletons of dead dragons. Far below, an ocean of acid churned. That unsettled feeling crowded him, the very air claustrophobic.

Saitama tipped his back head, and called out to the eerie green sky. “Mora!”

The strange clouds shifted. Black ooze bloomed above, bubbling with bulbous eyes and curious tentacles. Saitama stood his ground as the Prince appeared, _Waking Dreams_ clutched tight under his arm.

At the centre of the roiling mass, the largest eye squinted in what could only be a smug smile. “Ah … my champion, once again … _graces_ me, with his presence.”

Saitama contained a shiver. He still felt weak from the ritual, frail at the edges, but he dared not let it show. Instead he drew himself up, scowled while oily limbs wiggled languid around him.

“You lied to me,” he said. “You didn’t tell me Nardri was Dragonborn.”

The closest tentacle unfurled in sluggish gesture. “I, Dragonborn, told you what you … _needed_ , to know,” said Hermaeus Mora, in that slow drawl befitting the Prince of Fate. “Withholding knowledge … is not untruth.”

“It’s all a game to you, isn’t it?” said Saitama. He shook his head. “You don’t care what happens, as long as you get your knowledge in the end. That’s what you want from Nardri, isn’t it? Why you tutored her. You’re manipulating her hatred of Neloth, her former master. You want what Neloth knows, and you’ll get it if she kills him. Sending me after her is just entertainment.”

The largest eye blinked lazily. “Astute, Dragonborn,” said Mora, “but ultimately … incorrect. She came to me, seeking … information. Power, as you do. But her … hatred … of her former master, outweighed her fear of me. That, is most … unwise.”

Saitama rocked his weight. It was hard to breathe in Apocrypha, the pressure of Mora’s presence stifling.

“She took more knowledge … than she bargained for,” said Mora. “Dispatching you, was not … a whim, of my amusement. She has … outlived, her usefulness. The mind of a master Telvanni wizard would add … _volumes_ , to my collection … but her betrayal cannot stand. I will have her soul, in Oblivion. You have already promised me this, in exchange for my … earlier education.”

Saitama crossed his arms, Black Book still clamped beneath them. “Not a great education,” he sniped, “since you forgot to mention what she _really_ was.”

The atmosphere cooled, giving Saitama the impression of being glared at. The pools of slithery limbs swelled and waned, restless, slick and repulsive. “Tell me, Dragonborn …” said the Prince. “Did you come here to mock me? Or … did you come seeking an … advantage, against her?”

Saitama steeled himself. “You never gave me an advantage against Miraak,” he said. “You only put us on equal footing, teaching me the Shout you taught him.”

The closest appendage wiggled in something like glee. “My library has … grown, much, since I taught Miraak. Perhaps I shared things with Nardri … new skills that Miraak, hm, did not possess. She is young, inexperienced, but … talented. Her Voice is sweet music … natural talent.”

Though Mora spoke the last two words with fondness, his tone unsettled Saitama. “You’re saying her Shouts are stronger than mine?” said the Nord.

“To defeat this sorceress,” said Hermaeus Mora, “you _will_ need my help.”

Saitama swallowed hard. He then straightened with a deep breath, cocked his head. “All right,” he said, “I’m listening. What’s this about an ‘advantage’?”

“There is a Shout,” said Mora, proud and self-satisfied. “Ancient Words … forgotten Words … long buried in the ash, until found … by one of my servants. With it, you may … silence her … stripping her, of her Voice.”

Saitama frowned. He had never heard of such a power. “I’ll be able to stop her from Shouting?” he said. In answer, the volley of eyes above blinked slothfully. There were so many, Saitama never knew which to meet. He licked his lips, thinking. “What’s your price?”

The eyes narrowed. “Fealty,” said Mora. The tentacles flicked, possessive. “You will … _serve_ me, recognise me, as your one and only Lord. Until your death … and beyond. Your soul will belong to _me_ , Dragonborn, mine to claim … in Oblivion.”

The air shimmered beside Saitama – accompanied by a shuddering, guttural sound. A Seeker materialised at his side, one of the grotesque servants that guarded the halls of Apocrypha. In two of its four withered hands, it carried a roll of parchment and a quill. Saitama stepped back, unnerved by its sudden appearance.

Mora’s voice took on a sharp, stern edge. “No more betrayals,” said the Prince. “This bargain will be struck … with blood.”

Saitama studied the blank parchment in the Seeker’s decayed hand. He kept his face unreadable as he weighed his options, let nothing show. Then, he looked to Mora. “All right,” he said. He scratched his stomach, nonchalant, scrubbed his mended skin through the still-tacky claw holes in his armour. “Agreed, whatever. You can have my soul. Just teach me this Shout.”

Mora’s tentacles curled. “Very well.”

The Seeker drifted closer. Saitama took the quill it offered in his writing hand, and pressed its sharp tip into the skin of his opposite index finger. Once its point was stained red, he signed his name on the parchment. Without a word, he returned the quill to the Seeker. The demon flickered, and faded away with Mora’s contract.

Saitama faced the floating mass of ooze. “Your turn,” he said.

Mora hummed.

“Listen well … Dragonborn,” said the Prince. “Three Words of Power, I shall teach to you. A Shout … lost, to the ages. Unknown, even to your foe. Three Words, to still the Voice … of your fellow Dragonborn. _Zul … Rot … Nid_. Silence … of the Tongue.”

Saitama closed his eyes. _Zul_ , _Rot_ , _Nid_. He dug deep, sifted through the knowledge inside him – the souls of dragons he had killed, and absorbed. He heard the Words resonate in his own soul, suddenly familiar, as if he had known them all along.

“Go now, Dragonborn,” said Hermaeus Mora. “I have … many plans, for you….”

The tentacles receded, pulled back into the filth through which they poured. The many eyes shrank and closed, fading into nothing above the gloom of Apocrypha.

The moment he was alone, Saitama reopened _Waking Dreams_ to return to Skyrim.

He came to with a jolt, shivered as fresh air flooded his lungs again. The dank bedroom of a rare-used inn had never looked or smelled so inviting. He stuffed the Black Book away into his rucksack, buckled the straps tight to drown out its moans, and tossed the bag across into the foot of the nightstand.

Steadier than before his trip to Oblivion, Saitama rose and crossed to the door. He moved the chair he had propped against it, unbarring the entrance for whenever Genos returned from his Whiterun shopping trip. Saitama then raised his hand to inspect, the one he had drawn ‘ink’ from to sign Mora’s contract.

It was the same hand he had used to scratch his stomach. The skin of his finger remained unbroken behind the blood, not pierced by the quill. Nothing short of a greatsword could puncture it, now that he had shed his vampiric weaknesses.

Instead, the blood that coloured his fingertips was older – drawn in yesterday’s werebear mauling, when he was undead. It still clung moist to his torn clothes, just wet enough to gather as ink when pretending to have an itch.

Now that he was cured, signing the contract with his vampire blood meant nothing. It was the same as writing a false name: it made Mora’s insurance worthless, meant the Prince had no way of enforcing that Saitama gave up his soul.

Saitama looked to his crumpled rucksack, and smirked. “Sucker.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/1dqW-MJF8oA)
> 
> **Context notes:**  
>  * The **ritual** performed by Falion is part of the _Rising at Dawn_ quest, which rids the player of their vampirism. This is the most conventional way to cure the disease. In the game, aside from console commands, the only other way to remove vampirism is to drink the blood of a beast-form werewolf, trading it for lycanthropy instead.  
>  * In the game, **Black Books** only transport the player to Apocrypha when read on the island of Solstheim. When read in Skyrim, they only show the player a glimpse of Solstheim. For the sake of plot and time-saving, I chose to bend this rule.  
>  * The **“Silence Shout”** that Hermaeus Mora teaches to Saitama does not exist in the game. In Dovahzul, the language of dragons, its individual words mean Voice (Zul), Spoken Word (Rot), Nothing/None (Nid).
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	12. Chasing Echoes

*

 

The first time they travelled to Solstheim, Saitama had not wanted to cause panic by flying in on the back of a dragon. They arrived instead by boat, an hours-long journey across the Sea of Ghosts.

Now that he knew the people of Solstheim had worse to fear, Saitama called Kahodnir to carry him and his husband straight to Tel Mithryn.

He had not missed the ash. Their landing tossed plumes of it skyward, buffeting the giant mushroom that Neloth called home. Kahodnir laid flat on the grey earth, allowing the newlyweds to dismount. After a pat on the jaw from Saitama, Kahodnir then rose on knuckled wings and took off again. Saitama seized the hood of his cloak in the downdraft, having foregone the helm of his new dragonscale armour.

_Only the best for you_ , Genos had said, when Saitama balked at the pricey gear.

Once Kahodnir disappeared in the volcanic smog, Saitama led his partner up the snaking ramp and into Neloth’s tower. Telvanni levitation magic carried the two high inside the stalk of the overgrown fungus, and onto the main floor of the structure.

Neloth himself was nowhere in sight. His assistant, Talvas, glanced up from a nearby table; he greeted the travellers with enthusiasm, then hurried off to fetch his master. Genos wandered while they waited, inspected the shelves of alchemy ingredients. Hot beneath an airborne orb of magelight, Saitama lowered his hood.

He fretted over how to start. Talking with Neloth always wore him out.

Like some pompous sovereign, the master wizard bustled out of his enchanting chamber. The old elf looked irritated, wrinkles deep in his narrow face. “Back again?” he shot, on a beeline for his visitors. “Oh, don’t tell me you need _more_ help? I don’t see my Black Book, so you mustn’t have dealt with Nardri yet.”

He stopped short of his visitors, robes aflutter from the speed of his stride. Genos returned from the shelves, his ‘remarkable’ prosthesis deliberately concealed in his furs. The last time they were here, Neloth had all but asked to dissect him. That sort of first impression lingered.

Saitama stepped forward. “Not exactly,” he said, awkward. “She got away.  Your old apprentice _is_ after you, but … it’s complicated. Did you know she’s Dragonborn?”

The irritation on Neloth’s sour face failed to clear. “I did not,” he said. “Hm. How terribly annoying. Then, I suppose this matter with the Beast Stone … it is similar to what Miraak did years ago, after all.”

Genos nodded. “She controls it with a Shout,” he said. “Enslaving werebears, likely to use as soldiers when she seeks revenge on you for banishing her. She will march on this place, with this island’s beasts as her army.”

Neloth eyed him, sidelong and superior. “It will take nothing short of an army to face me,” he sniffed. He looked back to Saitama. “The Stones were corrupted before, by Miraak, and you sorted it all out. So, why haven’t you dealt with Nardri yet?”

Genos scowled, but Saitama spoke before he could insult the elf. “It’s not that easy,” he said. “I cleansed the Beast Stone, but she was there. She cursed it again right away. We have to _stop_ her, or she’ll just keep undoing my fix.”

Bored, it seemed, Neloth swept off to another table. A large map of Solstheim spanned its surface, edges pinned flat by empty soul gems. Neloth hunched over it, distracted. Saitama followed him, irked by the old sorcerer’s lack of focus.

Genos was more vocal in his displeasure. He stormed after Neloth, and swatted the paperweights to the floor. The map curled in on itself without the clutter holding it open, and Neloth wheeled around to glare at him.

“Do not ignore my husband, you long-eared fool,” Genos snapped.

Neloth swelled. Before he could retort, Saitama darted to plant himself between the two wizards. Both faltered, disarmed by his intervention. Saitama then fished into his cloak, and pulled out the amulet of Talos he had ripped from Nardri’s neck.

“Last time, you said you could use bits of creatures or clothing to perform divinations,” he said. Neloth raised an eyebrow, interest piqued. Saitama held out the amulet. “This is Nardri’s. Can you use it to find out where she is now?”

Genos calmed at once, surprised by Saitama’s insight. Had he taken the trinket for this purpose? What a brilliant idea, Genos thought, as to be expected of his husband.

Neloth snatched the necklace from Saitama, and held it to the light as a prospector might study a diamond. “Of course I can,” he said. With a haughty glance at Genos, he turned and strolled to an open space between the scattered tables.

Genos made to pursue him, but Saitama – familiar with Neloth’s rather haphazard style of magic – held him back. Genos gave his partner a confused look, which Saitama shrugged off as the master wizard cleared his throat.

Pale green-blue light filled Neloth’s palms. He moved his arms in a fluid, wheeling, ceremonious motion, fingertips trailing white flames. Genos tensed, intrigued while Saitama stood indifferent. The air around the old elf’s body began to glow red, a shroud of focused Magicka that lifted him an inch off the floor.

“I call upon the power of the sun, moons, and stars,” Neloth cried, back arced where he floated. “Nardri Vereleth, _reveal yourself_!”

He swung, dropped to strike one hand to the floor.

Power exploded outward from Neloth, a crimson rush that shook the tower. Empty bottles rolled off desks and shattered, books rattling in their shelves. After the initial blast, the magic lingered as scarlet fog. It swirled like smoke, iridescent and strange.

Once the haze cleared, Neloth turned to his two guests. Smug, he offered a fist. Saitama reached out, wary, and Neloth dropped Nardri’s amulet into his open palm.

“This will lead you to her,” said the elf. “Wear it, and you will see an echo of where she has been. Even you, someone with no magical talent whatsoever, can’t miss it.”

Without further ado, Neloth strode off toward the room from which he had emerged. While Genos scowled after him, Saitama sighed. “You’re not coming?”

The Dunmer flapped a hand. “I don’t have time to go traipsing all over Solstheim,” he said. “Don’t worry. If you die, I’ll find some other way to deal with Nardri. Be sure to hurry back with my Black Book, won’t you?”

As he retreated to his study, calling for Talvas to tidy the broken bottles, Saitama and Genos looked to Nardri’s pendant. It glowed dully against the dragonhide of Saitama’s gauntlet, tinged with magic like the sheen of oil. Resigned, Saitama shook out its cord and tied the amulet around his own neck.

“Are you certain that is wise?” said Genos, uneasy.

Saitama adjusted the pendant over the horned collar of his armour. “Sure,” he said. “Not jealous of another wizard’s power, are you?”

At his teasing, Genos crossed his arms. Saitama approached the hole in the floor, ready to float back down on Telvanni magic. Genos gave a start. “Wait,” he said. “That is all? We are leaving already?”

Saitama raised an eyebrow at him. “You wanna _stay_?”

The look Genos gave his partner could stop a charging boar at fifty yards.

With a yell of thanks, the couple descended to the tower’s entrance. Saitama tailed his husband out through the round doorway, down the ramp and into the ashlands.

He had to give Neloth credit. The moment he stepped outside, Saitama found a path of light under his feet.

The trail led north. It wove over the dusty dunes like a glowing snake, through the field of giant mushrooms and out of sight. Saitama knew Nardri had spent much time in this area, as Neloth’s apprentice, so what he saw could not have been her only ‘echo’. It was more likely the most direct route to her current location, similar to a Clairvoyance spell.

Genos noticed his gaze, fixed on something he himself could not see. “Did it work?” he said. “Do you see her tracks?”

“Something like that,” said Saitama. He raised his hood. “Ready to save the day?”

Genos flashed a rare smile. “Again?”

The trail took them to a cliff, the edge of the hill upon which Tel Mithryn was built. Beyond, vast oceans sprawled. Remote landmasses edged the horizon, continents Saitama could not name. Closer, perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead, an ancient Dwarven ruin lay half-sunk into the sea. Improvised bridges linked this abandoned city to the coast, bathed in the orange haze of sunlight through volcanic clouds.

Saitama led Genos off the cliff, a controlled skid down to the shore. Foam lapped at the grey beaches, any ash here washed away by crashing tides. Breaths of salt and flotsam stirred something in the newlyweds, a refreshing taste to the island’s smog.

Walking the coastline, they passed another monument to the All-Maker – the Sun Stone. Broken trees marred its scenery, boulders scorched by Red Mountain’s continual eruptions. Neloth’s guiding spell meandered along the coast, through spiny grass and shrubs more at home in Morrowind than Skyrim.

As they neared the submerged ruin, Genos spoke over the shrieks of gulls. “That is Dwemer architecture.”

Saitama nodded, eyes on of a family of jellyfish-like Netch floating nearby. “Nchardak,” he said. “That’s what the Dwarves called it. I’ve been here before, with Neloth. We found one of the Black Books inside.”

The luminous trail veered right, up a short set of steps and into Nchardak’s courtyard. Saitama stopped, puzzled. Nardri made her home in the flooded city?

He climbed the steps with caution, Genos close behind. The stone floor sat at an angle, tilted where its foundations had sagged. Fallen pillars lay strewn on walkways, Red Mountain a shadow in the clouds behind what remained of the buildings. Gold metal coloured the structures, typical Dwemer design. Raised statues of Dwarven Spheres loomed like sentries on either side of the ‘street’, still and rusted.

“Is this place intact?” said Genos, voice troubled.

Saitama approached the front wall of the city. Under an arch, stern-faced and unwelcoming, a metal Centurion head protruded. He met its lifeless eyes, shivered, then continued to follow the radiant path that only he could see.

Up a curved ramp, a cold cooking station and collapsed tents suggested signs of life. The equipment had not been used in years, abandoned since Saitama first cleared the place of bandits. Nardri’s magical echoes passed through this campsite, across a fallen bridge and toward the largest building.

Saitama recognised the grand doors here. They were the only way to access Nchardak’s interior – but the path did not lead indoors. It swerved right, around the platform and across a walkway to a separate structure.

There was no door here. Instead, the trail ended at a chest half-buried in rubble.

Genos strode past Saitama, confused. “This?” he said. He crouched beside the container, ran his metal hand over its lock. With a grunt, he seized the latch and tore it off. He tossed it away, into the water with a _plop_ , then pried open the chest’s lid.

Something groaned inside.

Saitama’s skin prickled at the sound, goosebumps rising as Genos jerked back from the golden box. With a mounting sense of dread, Saitama knelt and reached into the container. From its depths, he pulled out another Black Book.

_Arcadian Felicity_ – the volume Nardri had stolen from Neloth.

Realisation smacked him in the face. “Well, that makes sense,” he said, weighing the tome in his hands. “What better place to hide than in Apocrypha?”

Genos frowned down at him, hair buffeted by the ocean breeze. “Is it possible she was watching us,” he said, “when we entered through your book in Tel Mithryn?”

Saitama licked his lips, thumbing the battered cover. He had not told Genos of his extra visit this morning, aware he would not approve. “Each Black Book leads to a different part of Apocrypha,” he said, and got to his feet. “They don’t connect. If Nardri entered through this one, it’s her only way out. We’ll find her.”

Genos thought. “If this volume is her only exit,” he said, “as long as we have it, she cannot escape. She must pass us. We have her trapped.”

Saitama almost admired his fellow Dragonborn. “She’s brave,” he said. “She betrayed Mora, bad enough he wants her dead. Gotta be confident to hide right under his nose … well, tentacles.”

He made to open the tome – but Genos’s hand around his wrist stopped him. Saitama looked to his husband, found his expression steadfast. “Do not think of going in there alone,” said Genos. “Her Shout may turn me against you, but you have woken me from it before. Do not rob me of a chance to fight beside you.”

Saitama considered. “That’s all?” he said, serious. “Hircine blessed you in exchange for Nardri’s death. If you kill her, Gen, he’ll _own_ your soul. That’s not cool.”

Disgust pinched Genos’s face. “I have no plans to keep Hircine’s bargain,” he said. “But, I doubt Nardri will be alone. I will entertain her beasts, distract them while you deal with their mistress … however you decide. No arguments. I am _going_ with you.”

Saitama held his husband’s gaze. Genos did not blink, silver eyes burning with conviction. Saitama heaved a breath. He would rather leave Genos here, safe – but knew better than to argue. The mage had a point: Nardri would not be alone.

Unknown to Genos, though, she had no way of controlling him once Saitama used his new Shout. Other than protectiveness, there was no reason to leave him behind.

With a nod, Saitama hefted the Black Book in his arms. He allowed Genos to wrap his own mismatched limbs around him, let him take hold of the tome’s front cover. “This doesn’t count as our honeymoon, okay?” he said.

Embracing him from behind, Genos planted a swift kiss on Saitama’s neck. “I should hope not,” he said. “I expect total privacy and a king-size bed, at minimum.”

Together, they opened the book.

Familiar streams of runes rose from the yellowed pages. They coiled around the couple, tight and cold, solidified as tentacles to pull the two into Apocrypha.

Unlike the first time, Genos did not fall. The transition made him stumble, yanked headfirst into Oblivion, but he stayed on his feet with Saitama’s body as a ballast. He blinked away the blur, straightened to absorb the tunnel in which he found himself.

It was familiar, yet different. Loose pages covered a rough stone floor, the walls and ceiling a single arched surface crammed with hardbacks. Gloomy lighting, from some unknown source, claustrophobic. Dusty air, a malignant chill, the taste of old paper and ink. A sense of being watched, raising hairs on the back of one’s neck.

Genos could smell more, something he hated to recognise. Werebeasts: blood and rage and unclean fur, Hircine’s foul touch on otherwise proud creatures. He bristled, the scent setting him on edge. He smelled bear _and_ wolf, and abruptly recalled how one of the Frostmoon pack had been corrupted. Akar, if memory served.

Something darker lurked, too, a stink he knew from the ash: the were-Daedroth.

At his feet, Saitama was relieved to find Nardri’s glowing trail continued. He slotted _Arcadian Felicity_ into his rucksack, alongside _Waking Dreams_. The corridor itself seemed to groan, welcoming the Black Books home. Saitama suppressed a shudder.

“Let’s go,” he said.

The corridor wound long and serpentine, past pools of acid and shimmering Seeker clouds. There were no forks in the hall, no surprises. This lack of _anything_ unnerved the explorers, built suspense. Ragged banners fluttered from the roof, aglow with Mora’s image, literature swirling incorporeal through the walls. Eventually, the passage ended at a small room. This chamber housed pedestals of books, mountains of knowledge, scrolls stuffed into every available space.

Across the reading chamber, a tall archway opened onto a vast platform.

Even Saitama paused in awe. Its size rivalled the arena where he had fought Miraak, a podium above a sea of acid and tentacles. The ‘sky’ churned above, woven from a thousand auroras. Columns of books stretched tall, stacks that turned at impossible angles and undulated as if breathing. Lofty walls framed the space, arches leading to other halls. Nardri’s trail led through one of them, but Saitama ignored it.

Where Miraak’s stage had a raised altar at its centre, this platform held a deep pit.

Yet more books made up its walls, their spines shredded by giant claws. Saitama soon saw why; he leaned over the edge of the pit to spot the were-Daedroth pacing below. The abomination was every bit as ugly as he remembered, massive and misshapen, a terrible blend of wolf and man and crocodile.

Genos made a noise when he saw it. He moved past Saitama to crouch at the rim of the pit, and squinted down at its patchy fur and armoured scales. Perhaps able to smell him, the monster raised its horned head. Those fierce eyes glowed bright amid the gloom of its prison, like hot coals against tar, and it growled up at the intruders.

“Hircine said Nardri trapped it here,” said Genos, grave. “Unable to kill it, or bewitch it. It must be too heavy to pull itself out.”

Saitama stepped back. Something felt amiss. He had not expected Nardri to be very deep in Apocrypha, so self-assured in her power. “You smell anything else?”

Genos did not rise, but watched the were-Daedroth rise on its hind legs in unsuccessful attempt to climb the trench walls. “Yes,” he said. “Other beasts, Nardri … I believe the missing werewolf from Frostmoon Crag is here somewhere.”

Saitama faced him. Mortals did not belong in Apocrypha. He wondered if they could somehow shepherd the beasts out through the Black Books, once they had regained their minds. “After we’ve dealt with her, we should try to–”

“ _Ven Gaar Nos!_ ”

Wind slammed into the newlyweds’ backs, a tornado that knocked them apart and flung them skyward. The two flailed midair, helpless in the heartbeat before gravity snatched them back down. Saitama smashed face-first to the floor of the platform, but Genos was not so lucky in where he landed. He hit solid ground after Saitama did, as if his fall were longer, and found himself in sudden darkness.

He lay stunned, winded and unable to process what had happened. The fall left him sore, jarred but uninjured. A hiss snapped him to his senses and Genos scrambled onto hands and knees – and froze.

The cyclone had dropped him into the pit with the were-Daedroth.

The chimera released the wall, landed hard on all fours to inspect him. Its hackles rose, heavy tail restless. Slowly, Genos pushed upright. The demon watched him with eyes like molten iron, patchy fur on-end like that of a spooked cat.

It was sizing him up, too startled by his sudden appearance to react right away.

High on the platform, Saitama righted himself with a groan. He cradled his face, forehead throbbing from its introduction to the floor. His mind caught up with events and he shook off the daze, and rushed to the edge of the pit.

“Genos!”

The mage looked up, too deep to reach. Saitama considered climbing down to help him – but the scuff of boots drew Saitama away. He whirled around, and found Nardri seething across the open chamber.

The sorceress stood with conjured sword in hand, body shielded by the fiery armour of Dragon Aspect. Beside her hunched the missing werewolf, drooling and manic, held back by her free palm on its flank.

The elf pointed her blade at Saitama. “I warned you to leave me be, Nord,” she said, in that cold accent native to Solstheim. “You’ve no idea in what you meddle.”

Confident that Genos would be all right, at least for a little while, Saitama let his exasperation show. He had heard it all before. “Actually, I do,” he said. “You’re mad at Neloth for kicking you out. I get it–”

“Don’t patronise me!” Nardri spoke over him. She fisted the hand that kept her pet back, drawing a snarl from the wolf. “I was his protégé, you filthy n’wah. He will pay for tossing me out like garbage. I’m more powerful now than _any_ Telvanni.”

Saitama scratched his jaw. “I don’t care about your revenge,” he said. In the pit, Genos listened with bated breath. The were-Daedroth tasted his scent, undecided if he were friend or food. “Gods know there isn’t a soul alive Neloth hasn’t pissed off. But that’s between _you_ and _him_. Messing with the Beast Stone is not okay. You got a friend of mine killed, and bewitched my husband. You’re gonna answer for that.”

As if in response, the Daedroth let out a snarl. Genos backed against the wall of the trench, head down in case the brute took eye-contact as a challenge. Saitama shifted his weight. As much as he would love a good fight, now that he was strong again, he would rather not _kill_ another Dragonborn. They could still end this without death.

Nardri laughed. The smile that split her face was disturbed, a mind stretched too far. Saitama knew that look. He had seen it before, in another of Mora’s servants. Unhinged, lured by endless knowledge to the brink of madness. The Prince of Fate had that effect on his followers.

“This power of ours,” said Nardri, eyes bright. She waved her ghostly sword as she spoke, an aimless gesture. “Why would we have it, if not to use it?”

 “Not like this,” said Saitama. He lowered his tone, a warning. “You’ve already made enemies of two Daedric Princes. You don’t want me on that list, as well.”

The sorceress drew herself up. “I don’t fear you,” she said. She cocked her head, looked to the werewolf at her side. The beast continued to watch Saitama while she ran her fingers through its pelt, salivating in anticipation. “My army is almost ready to march on Tel Mithryn. I cannot let you stop me now.”

Saitama sighed. He leaned back, looked again into the pit. He saw Genos with his back to the wall, the were-Daedroth hunched ready to pounce. As if able to sense his stare, Genos craned to meet Saitama’s eye. His face was pale, but showed no fear.

“You good?” Saitama called down to him.

Genos nodded. “I will be fine!” he cried back. As Saitama leaned out of his line of sight, Genos returned his attention to the Daedroth. The chimera’s warped lips curled, showing jagged fangs in a clear display of hostility. It hissed again, the sound backed by a rattling growl from within its barrel chest. Genos balled his fists, and added in an undertone, “I hope.”

Saitama refocused on Nardri. She shook out her short hair, dropped into a fighting stance as three werebears emerged from archways about the platform. Her fellow, more experienced Dragonborn cracked his knuckles.

Violence it was.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/km72AbaoJ2M)
> 
> **Context notes:**  
>  * During the quest _Old Friends_ in the _Dragonborn_ DLC, Neloth casts a similar **divination** to locate another former apprentice.   
>  * **Netch** stay docile until attacked. They are domesticated in Morrowind for their meat and jelly, the latter of which has paralytic properties.  
>  * _Ven Gaar Nos_ is the **Cyclone** Shout, available in the _Dragonborn_ DLC. It creates a whirlwind that flings enemies airborne, causing fall damage and stunning them briefly. Its individual words mean Wind (Ven), Unleash (Gaar), Strike (Nos).  
>  * “ **N’wah** ” (pronounced _EN-wah_ ) is Dunmer slang, an insulting term for outlanders and foreigners.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	13. Dragonborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Content warnings – mild gore, blood_.

*

 

“ _Mul Qah Diiv!_ ”

The glow of Dragon Aspect surged to cloak Saitama’s body. It hardened in a second fiery skin over his armour, matched the horned shell of Nardri’s defences. His bones thrummed with its power, with anticipation. The sorceress stood her ground across from him, silently dared him to attack while her werebeasts prowled closer.

He moved, so fast that he disappeared from the spot.

He ran not at Nardri, but to the left. She shrieked for her pets to give chase, and they thundered to obey. Saitama outpaced them with ease, no vampirism to hinder him. He was strong again, swift.

Halfway to the arches at the edge of the platform, he skidded to a halt and turned in a whirl of his cloak. The four beasts stampeded in pursuit, bunched together, the smaller werewolf ahead of its ursine cousins.

Saitama filled his lungs, and Shouted.

“ _Gol Hah!_ ”

The golden burst of his cry hit all four beasts, stopping them dead. They shook themselves down, wills freed of Nardri’s control. For a second, they tottered as if drunk – until one of the bears reared up, and threw back its blunt head in a bellow. It then tackled another bear, rolled with it in a vicious clash of claws and muscle.

Saitama realised: they were feral. Savage, driven wild by the beastblood. Instinct demanded they attack whatever was closest, even each other.

The final bear raised a heavy paw to strike Saitama. He braced to block – only for the Frostmoon wolf to leap between them.

The dark werewolf grappled the larger beast with a snarl. It fastened its jaws on the brute’s shaggy throat, and Saitama watched his unexpected ally drag the monster away from him. It cleared his path to Nardri, perhaps as thanks for freeing it, while the other two continued to brawl on the ground.

Indifferent, Saitama looked to Nardri. She stood shaken, furious. Time seemed to slow as she opened her mouth, preparing to reclaim her soldiers with a Shout of her own. Before she could, Saitama launched himself forward. He saw fear flash in the elf’s red eyes, watched her recoil as he all but teleported in front of her.

She caught his punch with the flat of her sword. The ground cratered beneath them, a shockwave that whipped up loose pages and tossed back the surrounding werebeasts.

The two Dragonborns entered a stalemate, unstoppable force versus immovable object. Saitama grabbed Nardri’s other wrist with his free hand, forced it down before she could launch spells at his face. They were evenly matched, a full-body arm wrestle with no victor. Saitama’s soul sang, breathless as they struggled. He had forgotten how it felt, to fight at full strength against someone who could take it.

Their first battle did not count. He had not been himself as a vampire, weakened. This was different. _This_ would be fun.

Down in the pit, the were-Daedroth lunged.

Genos sprang off the wall of the trench, dodged to let the mutant slam headlong into the barrier of books and scrolls. He thought fast, made impatient by the sounds of his husband’s skirmish above.

He knew from their last run-in with the Daedroth that magic was ineffective. Elemental attacks bounced clean off its disfigured hide, and his Banish Daedra spell only returned it to Oblivion for a moment. He doubted a _Calm_ spell would soothe the demon, even if he were skilled with Illusion magic.

As the monster rounded on him, shoulder blades stretching the patchwork skin of its back, Genos wondered if he had gone about it all wrong. Maybe the best way to fight a beast … was _as_ a beast.

The Daedroth leered as he shifted, watched him hunch and don the form of a golden wolf. There was no kinship in its hiss, no camaraderie as Genos joined it on all fours and bared his teeth. The two circled each other in the dark of the pit, all guttural growls and aggressive body language. Genos’s mind continued to pulse while they postured, trying to devise an escape plan.

He could smell Saitama sweating from exertion. He had to get up there, soon.

The demon’s whole head seemed to split in a deafening roar, and Genos pounced.

Its scales were harder than stalhrim, like trying to bite through diamond. Its more lupine parts lacked this toughness: clumps of its fur came away under Genos’s claws, skin scored pink, and the monster snapped and twisted to retaliate. So small and nimble was he in comparison, like a mouse evading a cat’s paws, the massive brute could not catch him. He weaved around its swings, vaulted the whip of its tail and threw swipes of his own whenever he saw an opening.

Impressive as his acrobatics were, the were-Daedroth was _built_ for combat – to survive. Genos would die of old age before he pierced its flesh.

Above, Saitama and Nardri remained locked in their impasse. Saitama kept her empty hand down, his knuckles still mashed against her sword. The broken ground cracked further, crumbled where their feet slipped in the struggle to overpower the other.

With a grunt of effort, Nardri managed to twist the wrist he held captive. She angled her palm up at his face, and unleashed a fireball.

It hit him square in the chin. The flames crashed against him, a burst of plasma that snapped his head back. He felt no heat, no pain, but the force of the explosion sent him staggering. Once he found his balance, he shook off the brief blindness to note Nardri’s perplexity.

Perplexed by his lack of burns, she peered into his eyes. At last, she noticed they had lost that amber hunger – realised he was no longer undead.

“Yeah,” said Saitama, flicking cinders from his cloak. “Vampirism’s not for me.”

Behind the glow of her armour, Nardri’s skin drained of what little colour it had. Anger then surfaced, and she Shouted down a new cyclone. Saitama dived to avoid its pull, was yanked off his feet but not hurled into the air like before.

He stayed focused. With the boost from Dragon Aspect, he had around forty seconds before she could Shout again. Still, it would be sloppy to wait that long and let her re-bewitch the werebeasts. Saitama kicked upright, braced, and yelled out the new weapon from Hermaeus Mora.

“ _Zul Rot Nid!_ ”

In a rush of green, Nardri was flung away from Saitama as if propelled by a comet. She thudded hard to the ground, dropped her sword on impact. The conjured blade clattered away and burned out, her ghostly armour likewise dispelled as momentum carried her across the platform.

Saitama straightened up once she rolled to a stop. He watched Nardri hurry to her knees, faltered as she doubled over and clutched her throat. She coughed, lurched to her feet – and fell straight back down, too weak to stand. Her eyes went wide.

“What did you do?” she rasped. The words that left her were frail, reedy as an old woman’s. She choked in rage. “You – you won’t stop me! I deserve revenge!”

The sorceress forced herself upright, conjured orbs of purple magic in both palms. She tossed them down, calling forth two Daedra to defend her as she slumped to catch her breath.

The conjured demons resembled Dark Elves, with curved horns and scarlet war paint. They wore spiked armour and carried greatswords: Dremora Lords. Both demons drew their weapons, eager to defend their summoner in battle.

“ _Another who seeks Death!_ ” one roared.

They did not scare Saitama. He readied his fists, no qualms against killing Daedra.

Below, Genos slammed into the wall of the pit. He lay winded, stunned from the blow that knocked him flying. He had taken a few hits, glancing strikes too fast to dodge, but this last one caught him square in the flank. A dull throbbing promised agony tomorrow, but he did not suspect broken bones or damaged organs.

The were-Daedroth towered over him, a hulking silhouette in the gloom. It seemed to be playing with him, toying with its food. Defiant, Genos picked himself up. His beast form was physically superior to his human one, but still unable to injure such a monster. It had no weaknesses that he could see, no soft spots or gimmicks.

Again, he rethought his tactics.

He remembered his first visit to Apocrypha, recalled the book offered to him by one of Hermaeus Mora’s hideous servants. _Sixteen Accords of Madness, volume six_. It described the were-Daedroth’s origins: the Prince of Madness, Sheogorath, had once proposed a contest to Hircine, a competition to groom a beast to do battle. Hircine infused an ancient Daedroth with lycanthropy, a horror akin to Genos’s foe.

Sheogorath challenged this monster with a tiny songbird, which perched upon the brute’s snout. The were-Daedroth had mauled its own face to attack it, blinding itself – tore itself apart while the bird flitted about its body.

Genos shed his wolf form, clutched his aching side as he backed into the wall of the pit. He had no songbird, but perhaps there was another way to trick his foe.

As the warped demon slung itself low in approach, ropes of drool trailing from its jaw, Genos conjured a bow and arrow. The Daedroth reacted with excitement, horrid features lit purple by the weapon’s glow. The monster launched itself at him, barrelled toward Genos – who readied a shot with a steady breath. He aimed square between the Daedroth’s eyes, stood his ground as it pounded closer.

Genos fired, but did not wait to see if his shot hit its mark. He dived, flattened himself under the beast’s leap. He felt the floor shake when it smashed down on the spot he had just occupied. The mage wheeled around, already preparing another attack – though saw it was not needed.

His arrow protruded from the monster’s face like a wire-thin horn, embedded in the cleft of two scales between its eyes. The were-Daedroth jerked as if to sneeze, reversed to try and get away from the object in its vision. With a snarl, it swatted a lethal paw. The arrow broke under its claws, split in half with the tip still wedged in the beast’s flesh.

As Genos watched, the demon reared up on its hind legs. With both forepaws, it tore at the annoyance. Its huge claws sliced its own muzzle like scythes through parchment, spilling deep red blood to the floor of the pit. The Daedroth howled, thrashing and furious as it blinded itself.

Unblinking, Genos dismissed his summoned bow. Movements slow and quiet, he inched to the closest wall and laid a hand upon it. He tore his stare from the flailing behemoth, and inspected the packed shelves. The tomes were crammed tight, an uneven surface slashed in places where the demon had tried to scale them. Genos weighed far less than it did: he reached up and began to climb, escaped while the Daedroth continued to mangle its own face.

He hauled himself out of the pit in time to see Saitama punch a Dremora to dust.

The Nord was focused, sharp in the throes of battle. The shockwave of his fist swept across the platform, ripping a new fissure in the floor. Nardri ducked behind a curved column to avoid the gust, already summoning a new servant. She looked ragged, draconic armour gone. She could not have had much Magicka left.

Genos smelled blood. Outside the fray, he saw the three werebears strewn about. They were all still, dead. The Frostmoon wolf sat some distance away, ears down and tail curled under, licking its many wounds.

Screeching, the closer of Nardri’s two Dremora swung its greatsword at Saitama. Saitama dodged with ease, then landed an uppercut to the elf-like demon’s chin. The Dremora was hurled backward, fading to Oblivion before it even hit the floor.

Genos ran forward, sprinted to his husband’s side. Saitama had no time to grin before the final Dremora Lord was on them. He ducked back as Genos surged forward; the mage conjured a Ward, a crackling shield that blocked the demon’s stab. Saitama then darted around him, and drove his knuckles into their foe’s chest. The Dremora disintegrated with a screech, came apart in a cloud of energy.

Nardri burst through the cloud, having dashed up behind the demon.

Her conjured dagger sparked off the gauntlet Saitama raised to deflect. He moved like fluid, swerved around Nardri while momentum carried her forward. He thrust a palm to her back as she flew by, and shoved her lightly to the floor. The elf hit with a grunt, the breath knocked from her as her fallen dagger turned to smoke.

She lay confused a moment, winded by the impact. In the pause, Saitama strolled to Genos and squeezed his shoulder. The couple shared a quick smile, then hardened again. They watched Nardri crawl to her hands and knees, exhausted.

“By the Mad Queen, _enough_!” she wheezed. She hunched where she knelt, eyes squeezed shut. “Enough … I can fight no more.”

Saitama frowned, sceptical as the armour of his Shout faded away. He looked smaller without it. “That’s it?” he said. “You give up, just like that?”

Beside him, Genos crossed his mismatched arms. He did not trust this, still able to hear the were-Daedroth thrashing down in the pit.

Nardri raised her head enough to glare at Saitama, eyes wet. Her indignant expression broke in moments, and she wilted. “I know you weren’t trying to kill me,” she said. “You … you were holding back. I have no hope of defeating you.”

Genos glanced at his partner. He saw Saitama’s face stiffen, a thin mask over disappointment. Saitama then heaved a sigh, and sank to squat before the sorceress.

Before he could speak, a loud _crack_ split the air.

The platform lurched, dropped several feet as if the bottom had fallen out of the world. Genos stumbled, startled from his cynicism, and Saitama tensed to keep from toppling over. The sky above appeared to tilt, gravity askew.

Saitama looked down to find the floor fractured, deep fissures torn into the rock in his fight with Nardri. As he watched, the cracks spread: they spider-webbed underfoot, lanced up the walls of the arena with a terrible grinding noise. The ground lurched again, tomes falling from nearby pillars as the damage spread to the platform’s foundations.

He reached for his rucksack – but the ground opened up before he could grab the Black Book.

The entire podium shattered, dumping all aboard it toward the acid sea. The three dead werebears plummeted like stones, the Frostmoon wolf howling as it span uncontrollably. Saitama grabbed Genos in the fall, Nardri wheeling to their right. In a rain of books, the were-Daedroth also tumbled with a roar.

Pulling his husband close, Saitama spotted two more platforms below. They were smaller, rock discs suspended on trunks of tentacles. Squinting in the wind, he angled himself toward the closest one and kicked off a large piece of falling rubble. His jump changed the angle of their fall, and the couple crashed safe onto the outcrop in a shower of debris.

Nardri landed hard on the other platform. She bounced and rolled off its rim, but seized the edge before she could fall a second time. She cried out as the sudden stop wrenched her shoulders, dangled over nothing. The werewolf was not so lucky: it sped past her, jostled by the three bear corpses to land in the ‘water’.

The bears sank, swallowed by viscous acid and tentacles, but the werewolf vanished on contact. Saitama climbed off of Genos, panting. He had fallen into that ocean himself once before; he awoke safe back on Solstheim, in the room where he read the Black Book to enter Apocrypha. The wolf would be fine.

The same could not be said for Nardri.

Before she could haul herself up, the were-Daedroth smashed down onto her platform. The stage tipped with its weight, almost threw her off. Nardri kicked, managed to pull up so that her arms and chest were aboard the plinth. She looked up to find the Daedroth on its side, nostrils flared and pointed toward her.

The mutant’s breaths were heavy. Stripes of bone shone through its mangled face, eyes ruined, lips curled. Though blind, the monster still seemed to remember its task. Its purpose was to hunt Nardri, and it could smell her in peril. It began to drag itself toward her, growling low and rough in its throat.

Saitama stood, balled his fists when Genos rose a heartbeat later. “Do your banish-Daedra thing,” he said.

While Genos focused his Magicka, no questions asked, Saitama launched himself across the open air to Nardri’s platform.

He landed in front of the sorceress, between her and the Daedroth. The monster roared, reared up and swung wild. Saitama sidestepped the blow, and calmly punched the huge brute square in the nose. The beast reeled away, stunned with pain from the strike to its open wound.

Giving it no chance to recover, Genos cast his spell. The stale air seemed to scream with his hex, the were-Daedroth sent howling back to Hircine’s plane of Oblivion.

Saitama exhaled in the eerie quiet that followed. He turned around, and stooped to pull Nardri up from where she dangled.

The elf frowned as he helped her to her feet, mystified. She did not speak, but allowed Saitama to hook an arm around her waist. They leaped together across to Genos’s outcrop, where she shoved off her fellow Dragonborn and hugged her sides.

“You …” she said. “Why did you help me?”

Saitama brushed himself off. “I don’t think you’re a bad person,” he said. Nardri’s features rippled, though he chose not to address it. “You know a lot of strong magic, but you’re not burning down villages. Evil’s not your style. You just want revenge.”

Beside his husband, Genos folded his arms again. He analysed Nardri’s posture, the slump to her shoulders. Something about her spoke to him, even as her lips thinned.

“Neloth told us he caught you once with the Black Book, before he banished you,” he said. Nardri avoided his stare. “Your original goal was not to steal it, was it? You were trying to learn from it, to impress your master.”

Saitama eyed his partner sidelong.

Nardri gazed over the oily seas of Apocrypha. The twisted columns undulated, stretched and sagged in a slow dance. Downcast, she shook her head.

“All I wanted was for him to acknowledge me as a wizard,” she said, forlorn. “Neloth is brilliant, but egotistic. He never praised my skill. I did everything he asked, tried so hard to reach his level, but he treated me like a slave. I thought, if I were smarter … so, I took the Book. You’re right: I had full intent to return it.”

Saitama toed his boots on the ground. “Neloth thought you wouldn’t, I guess.”

Nardri faced him. There was tension in her neck, chin jutting out. “He banished me without a second thought,” she spat. “Discarded me, like I meant nothing. I _idolised_ him. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

It was with a heavy heart that Genos remembered how he had fled from Saitama, when the Nord first admitted his attraction to him. Uncomfortable, he wondered if it were a similar feeling … being rejected with such finality.

Nardri squeezed her own elbows, arms still wrapped around herself. “I found the Word Wall at Saering’s Watch, and it taught me magic even Neloth didn’t know,” she said. “I thought for certain, he would take me seriously – but even then, he turned me away. I was so angry … so I stole his beloved Book. I wanted him to _hurt_.”

“Why corrupt the Beast Stone?” said Genos, while Saitama rocked on his heels.

The sorceress clenched, spiteful. “Tel Mithryn was my home,” she said. “Years of abuse, and he snatched it away in a heartbeat. I wanted to return the favour. I raised my army of beasts to destroy his precious tower. Maybe then, he’d respect me.”

Saitama frowned. “Someone died for your power trip,” he said. At Nardri’s flinch, he stepped forward. “Dreyla Alor, a friend. She was travelling to trade, and your werebears mauled her on the road. Her dad’s already lost his wife, and now his only child is gone, too.”

“That wasn’t …” said Nardri, shoulders hunching. “I didn’t know what happened until I heard in Raven Rock. She must have gotten too close to them. I … I am sorry. I never meant for anyone to die.”

Saitama scrutinised the sorceress. The stiffness of her frame told him she was truly upset – but before he could respond, something shifted in the sky.

Blackness bloomed where the sun should have been, bubbled like tar under the wispy off-green auroras of the heavens. Tentacles spilled down over the small platforms, unfurled as bulbous eyes cracked open in the slick. The very air seemed to chill, the stale book smell replaced by something sour and dangerous.

At the centre of the ooze, the largest eye rolled to fix on Nardri. The sorceress jerked back, alarmed while Saitama and Genos both tensed. Nardri overcame her shock enough to conjure a sword, and slipped into a fighting stance.

Hermaeus Mora’s soft laugh rumbled through Apocrypha. “As it should be …” said the Prince. “It would be … _unwise_ , not to fear me….”

Genos could smell that Nardri was indeed afraid. He flexed his fists, though faltered when Saitama stepped out in front of Nardri.

Genos gulped. He did not know what his husband planned, but attacking a Daedric Prince in its own realm was suicide. Even with _two_ Dragonborns, they could not win.

Saitama popped one shoulder in its socket. “Hope you’re not here to ‘collect’, Mora,” he said. “Nobody’s getting sacrificed to Oblivion today.”

The Prince of Knowledge hummed, long and low, tentacles curling. “You are … misinformed … Dragonborn,” said Mora. “Or … did you perhaps forget, our bargain?”

Saitama felt Genos’s eyes on the back of his head. He ignored the sensation. “I didn’t forget,” he said, “but _you’re_ the one who’s misinformed.”

Cool, he turned his back on the Prince. He found Genos and Nardri both staring at him, though again dismissed their reactions. Instead, he reached into his rucksack and pulled out _Arcadian Felicity_. Genos understood in a heartbeat, and linked his arm with his partner’s – but Saitama stopped him from opening the Black Book. The tome groaned in their hands, and Saitama met Nardri’s bewildered gaze.

“Promise not to abuse your Voice again,” he said, “and you can escape with us.”

Nardri’s eyes widened.

Hermaeus Mora snarled. “Insolence!” spat the Prince. The word boomed, venomous with wrath. Saitama could count the number of occasions he had heard Mora yell on one hand, and each time it turned his skin to gooseflesh. “Even after Miraak’s example, you still think to defy me? Imprudent child!”

A nearby tentacle whipped. Nardri readied her blade, but the thrash had not been an attack. Genos tried to wet his throat, struggling to breathe through the tension. Saitama, meanwhile, failed to as much as wince. In the pause, Mora calmed.

“No matter,” said the Prince. “You have always been … my pawn. Now … I have the means to _enforce_ that. Your blood, Dragonborn. Kill her for me.”

Genos went rigid. “He has _what_?” he shot. _Now_ his husband winced, and Genos pieced together what had transpired in his absence. Horrified fury turned his insides to ice, and he spluttered. “You made a blood contract with a Daedric Prince?!”

“Can we discuss this later?” Saitama hissed through his teeth.

He expected Mora to quip, to comment on how there would not _be_ a later, but the Prince stayed ominously quiet. If the way Genos’s outrage vanished was any sign, the mage noticed as well. Saitama’s skin prickled. With a jolt, he realised Mora’s order had been an attempt to invoke their contract – and this silence was his confusion.

Mora had tried to compel him to kill Nardri – but because Saitama had signed the contract in vampire blood instead of fresh, it had failed.

One did not need to be the Prince of Knowledge to figure out his trickery.

Apocrypha pulsed. A tremor shook the realm, dislodged books and soul gems from their alcoves in nearby columns. The objects tumbled into the acid sea, each dissolving in a hiss as furious tentacles writhed in the sky.

“ _Deceiver!_ ” Mora screamed.

A grotesque ring of Seekers spawned to encircle the three aboard the platform. The acid below exploded, spitting up Lurkers – towering, fish-headed Daedra. Genos released Saitama, horror forgotten, and they and Nardri backed together to cover each other’s flanks.

The largest Seeker spread its four withered arms, but Nardri took it down with a fireball before it could attack. Palm still smoking, she glanced to Saitama. “I accept your offer, Nord,” she said. “Get us out of here!”

Once she and Genos both grabbed him, Saitama tore open the Black Book.

Ribbons of words burst out, ensnared the three mortals to yank them through its pages. Saitama felt gravity shift, felt the pull of being wrenched through Oblivion – and then a sudden _stop_ , as something cold and boneless seized his ankle.

A tentacle, thicker than those spewed from the Book: Mora’s. The Prince had him in a vice grip, trying to haul him back to Apocrypha.

Saitama kicked in panic. The Void roared in his ears, the planes of Oblivion rushing by in a whirl of senseless sound and colour. Genos and Nardri still clung to him, shimmered where they hung between realms, fighting to pull him through.

Mora’s limb squeezed, coiled farther up his leg like a python. “You _dare_ cheat me!”

Saitama had a vivid flash of Mora impaling Miraak through the chest. It was not the way he wanted to die.

Through the whirlwind, a grey hand emerged. In its grip was a fiery sword: as Saitama flailed, Nardri slashed her blade through the tentacle holding him.  The limb came apart as if made of oil, and Saitama was catapulted through into Solstheim.

He, Nardri, and Genos landed together in a heap, on the outskirts of Nchardak.

The Black Book bounced away, skidded to a halt on the makeshift bridge that linked the sunken city to the island. Saitama lay on his back a moment, panting and shaken, unable to make sense of the volcanic clouds above. The smell of the coast assaulted his nostrils, air thick with ash and salt.

There was a scuffling – and then a dull thud against his armour, as Genos punched him in the shoulder.

With a squawk, Saitama sat up. Genos looked furious, on his knees beside his husband. Nardri scooted a few feet away on her rump, not sure how else to react.

Genos shook his metal fist. “You pledged your soul to Hermaeus Mora?!”

Saitama stared, mind still fried by panic. The crash of the waves washed over him, paradoxical. As his pulse began to slow, he blew out a sigh. He leaned back on one hand, massaged his sweat-dampened face with the other.

That was close.

“So _he_ thought,” he said. He laughed, too scatter-brained to explain.

Heart racing, Genos sagged where he knelt. His raised arm fell limp. Unbelievable. This man was unbelievable. “You … tricked him?” he said. He absorbed Saitama’s nod, watched him cross his legs and prop his elbows on his thighs. The mage frowned. “You do realise, he will hunt you for the rest of your life for this.”

Saitama raised an eyebrow at him. “No worse than Hircine’s gonna hunt _you_ ,” he said. Genos conceded the point. Saitama then looked to Nardri, who drew herself up where she sat on the ground. “Thanks, yeah? Guess we’re even.”

Nardri held his gaze with determination. “We are.”

Satisfied with that, Saitama reached aside. He grabbed _Arcadian Felicity_ by the battered spine, and dragged it into his lap. He shook the heavy tome out, dusted it off, and offered it to Nardri. Both she and Genos flashed surprise at the gesture. Nardri accepted the book, stoic until Saitama covered her hands in warning.

“Tell Neloth the truth when you return this damn thing,” he said. He did not blink, but locked eyes with her in a way that promised trouble if she disobeyed. “If you’re honest, he might take you back as his apprentice. I don’t know. Just don’t be stupid with your Voice again. ’Cause if you are … I won’t be happy. Got it?”

Nardri bit her lip. She bowed her head and Saitama let go of the book, left it in her cautious hands. The elf breathed deep, a long cycle to clear her thoughts, and looked up from the black leather.

“Thank you, sera,” she said. “Sincerely, thank you. You are a better mentor than Neloth will ever be. I … I will do what I can for the father of the girl my beasts killed. You have my word: as the Night is my witness, I will misuse this power no more.”

Saitama nodded his approval.

Nardri stood. She voiced thanks to Genos as well, clutched the book to her front, and started away, traversed the improvised walkways over the sunken city. The newlyweds watched her depart, serenaded by gulls as she stepped onto the coast and disappeared into the ashlands.

Water crashed all around, no sounds of civilisation for miles. Saitama closed his eyes, hummed away the last of his adrenaline from Apocrypha. He felt Genos sit down properly beside him, was jostled when the blond laid his cheek against Saitama’s neck.

They stayed there a while, basked in ocean sounds and the quiet of each other’s company. Their minds wandered, drained from the trials of these last few days. Saitama came back to himself when Genos moved; the mage pressed his lips to the side of his husband’s throat, and began to trail soft kisses upward.

“So,” said Saitama. “Any thoughts on where you want to honeymoon?”

Against his jaw, Genos laughed.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/p9ECSdoy6u0?t=11s)
> 
> **Context notes:**  
>  * **Stalhrim** is a rare ore found on Solstheim. Some call it “enchanted ice”. It is one of the hardest materials known to man, requiring a special pickaxe to mine.  
>  * **Dremora Lords** are Daedra who serve Mehrunes Dagon, the Prince of Destruction and Change. They are powerful, easily one of the strongest summoned creatures in the game.  
>  * **Sheogorath** is the Daedric Prince of Madness. He features prominently in _The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion _’s “Shivering Isles” DLC, though in _Skyrim_ he is “on vacation” … inside the mind of a long-dead emperor.__
> 
> __[Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/) _ _


	14. Epilogue

*

 

The midday sun scorched the back of Saitama’s neck, golden light filtered through the tall trees of Falkreath. He followed a familiar path through the lush green maze of pine and spruce and alder, set his hand on a mossy trunk in passing. The moss was warm under his palm, soft beneath tough skin. Woodland smells embraced him, rich and wild, dappled shadows on the uneven ground. He heard running water, some distance away, his stroll serenaded by warbling birds and the bark of a dog.

‘Homesick’ was not something Saitama ever expected to feel – but this slope, this hill over Lake Ilinalta, soothed his anxious breath and weary feet.

He quickened his step, smiled in anticipation of what he knew lurked over the mound. His backpack rattled on his shoulders, laden with bedroll and torch and cooking equipment.

Like sunrise, it slid into view as he climbed: a house, _his_ house, the manor he shared with his husband of one year.

A hawk circled overhead, coasting between the towers of the mansion. Saitama had wanted a smaller place, something modest and humble, but Genos insisted on a library and alchemy lab and extra bedrooms. In hindsight, Saitama was glad he agreed. Fat chickens pecked about the animal pen, bees drifting near the apiary at the rear of the homestead. Fern-like plants grew aplenty, soft pink flowers and juniper bushes. The building itself stood proud, handsome, whitewashed walls and smoke rising from the chimney.

On the manor’s front step, Saitama found his family.

Genos sat with his back against the door, a battered book in his lap. Saitama recognised it at once: _Kolb and the Dragon_ , a children’s story. At Genos’s left side perched a little girl, a brown-haired Nord named Sofie. On Genos’s right was Blaise, a young Breton boy. Both children listened intently while Genos read to them, enraptured. Neither they nor Genos had noticed Saitama’s return.

Metres out from the house, Saitama paused to absorb the sight. Everything about it was perfect, picturesque, and he could not help but smile wider. A strange mix of emotions bubbled in him, but the one that touched him most was _peace_.

From around the back of the house, a shaggy grey dog came bounding. It barked when it spotted him, startling the children and Genos from their story. The hound charged past them, full speed, straight toward Saitama, who squatted to greet it.

“Heya, Meeko,” he said. The dog licked his face as if it would never get another chance, front paws braced on his thighs while he scratched its ears with both hands.

“Papa!” he heard Sofie cry.

Saitama glanced up. Like miniature battering rams, both children slammed into him. They threw their arms around him, hugged him hard enough to push him onto his rump in the long grass. Saitama patted their backs, infected by their giggles.

It was such a contrast, between now and when he and Genos took them in. They found Sofie first, frail and hungry, selling flowers on the streets of Windhelm. Blaise, shy and weak, they found sleeping among horses in the stable outside Solitude. Now, both children were vibrant – happy and healthy, with two loving parents.

“All right, all right!” Saitama laughed. “I’m back, yay. Let me breathe, please.”

Blaise pulled away, though Sofie kept her arms looped around her father’s neck. Still on the manor’s front step, Saitama caught sight of Genos. The mage had set down his book but not risen, watching fondly. Saitama ruffled Blaise’s hair, and lifted Sofie on his hip as he stood. Meeko darted around them all, barks loud and excited.

“I went fishing at the lake, Papa,” said Blaise, tugging at Saitama’s tunic. “I almost caught something!”

“That’s cool, kiddo,” said Saitama.

Sofie clung fearless in the crook of his arm. “You were gone too long, this time,” she said. “Did you bring us anything?”

Saitama grinned, proud of his own forethought. “Sure I did. Wanna see?”

He twisted his free hand back to dig in his rucksack, and produced a small doll for Sofie. It was a simple thing, stitched hemp and straw hair, but her eyes lit up at the sight of it. She squeezed the doll in a hug as soon as it was handed to her, delighted.

“I love her,” she said. “Thank you, Papa!”

For Blaise, Saitama had procured a very special dagger on his trip. The boy’s mouth fell open when he unsheathed it: the blade gleamed blue in the sunlight, a darker shade than stalhrim, hilt golden and sturdy.

Blaise made an awed sound. “What’s it made of?”

“It’s called ‘mithril’,” said Saitama, adjusting Sofie on his hip. Genos stood at last, his expression as amazed as their son had sounded. Saitama hoped the weapon would not give away his secret gift for Genos. “You can’t get it in Skyrim, so it’ll be hard to fix if it breaks. Be careful, okay, kiddo?”

Blaise gave the dagger a swing. “I will,” he said. “Thanks, Pa!”

The boy then turned and ran around to the side of the house, off to play with his new toy. With a yap, Meeko followed. Once the two had begun their pretend battle, Genos stepped forward from the house.

“I have not seen mithril since my youth, in High Rock,” he said. The sheer affection on his face was so bright, Saitama had to look elsewhere or be blinded. Genos stroked Sofie’s hair where she sat cradled in Saitama’s arm. “How was your trip?”

Saitama half-shrugged. “Just a few bandits,” he lied. “Nothing special.”

Genos’s brow creased. “You were gone awfully long for ‘just a few bandits’.”

Saitama tried not to squirm. Even though his reasons were pure, he hated to deceive his husband. It would not be for long, anyway. “Yeah, well,” he said, “next time the jarl sends a courier with an ‘urgent matter’, you can deal with it.”

The mage smiled at that. “Perhaps I will,” he said.

As if on cue, Saitama’s stomach rumbled. Sofie squeaked against him, felt the vibrations through their torsos. Genos turned his head toward where Blaise and Meeko were running circles around each other.

“Kids,” he called, “please go set the table for dinner.”

Sofie whined. “But _Pa_ ,” she said. “I want to stay with Papa. Please?”

At Genos’s grimace, Saitama knelt to set her down. He tucked the girl’s hair behind her ear, stung by her pout. “We’ll play later,” he promised.

With a dejected sound, the doll nestled like a baby in her arms, Sofie started toward the manor. Blaise dashed to meet her at the step, Meeko hot on his heels, and they headed indoors together.

Alone with the chickens, Genos welcomed his husband back.

The couple kissed, slow and tender, tasted each other in a gentle embrace. Saitama’s hands found Genos’s hair, fingers tangling in choppy blond locks. How hair could smell like home, he never knew … but it did. The breath on his face, the brush of lashes on cheeks, the tiny moans of appreciation … it was wonderful. Genos’s firm grip told him they would not get much sleep tonight. He looked forward to it.

Before they could get too worked up, Saitama tipped his head to part their lips. Genos made an impatient noise, but Saitama refused to give in. He instead nuzzled his way across Genos’s cheek to his ear, where he planted one last peck under the lobe and pulled away.

“Anything interesting happen while I was gone?” he said.

Genos took a moment to compose himself, both hands fisted in the folds of his husband’s cloak. The mage cleared his throat, calmed by melodic birdsong as Saitama played with his hair.

“I received a letter from the College of Winterhold,” said the mage, voice still a touch ragged at the edges. “The Arch-Mage offered me a teaching position.”

Saitama blinked. “Whoa,” he said. “That’s awesome! When do you start?”

Genos’s stare strayed toward the house. “I did not accept,” he said. When he focused again on his spouse, doubt pinched his features. “I do not know if I should.”

A bee droned by Saitama’s ear. He flapped it away without looking, centred fully on Genos. “Why not?”

Genos shook his head. “Teaching our children is more important to me,” he said. “True, Blaise prefers fighting over learning, but….”

At Saitama’s wriggle, the two separated. He wandered to a nearby tree, and ghosted his nails over its trunk. Gashes crossed the rough bark, shallow cuts from previous daggers the boy had owned. “Maybe we should take him on the next adventure,” he joked. He twisted to Genos, a dumb grin on his face. “Let him take on a few Frostbite Spiders, or something. Kid’s got a good arm.”

Genos stared, deadpan. “Please, no. No monsters until he is at least sixteen.”

With a lick of his kiss-plumped lips, Saitama sobered. “You’d be a good teacher, I think,” he said. “I’m pretty sure there’s another plot of land for sale up near Winterhold. We could build another place, no problem, and stay here on holidays.”

The mage sighed. “I will think about it,” he said.

Genos reached out, caressed Saitama’s cheek in his flesh hand. He then turned on his heel, and started in an easy walk. Saitama stayed put, watched his partner step over a stray chicken on his path toward the mansion. The weight of his secret kept the Nord pinned to the spot, unable to contain it any longer.

“I showed Sofie how to make crostatas today,” said Genos, unaware that his husband was not with him. “Dinner is braided bread and pheasant roast, but if you wish to try one beforehand–”

“I lied,” Saitama blurted out.

Genos stopped dead, frowned, then faced his husband in confusion.

Saitama toed the ground, nervous all of a sudden. “I wasn’t summoned by the jarl to deal with bandits,” he said. Genos stepped closer, cautious, as if approaching some injured animal. Saitama thumbed his own nose. “I got you a gift, too, for our anniversary. From High Rock … Starfall Bay.”

At once, Genos’s features became a mask. He fell still, looked somehow small despite his tall stature. No, not small. _Young_.

“I stopped in an old ghost town, outside Wayrest,” Saitama continued. “There was this big temple, a shrine to Magnus – the Breton god of magic. Apparently, a family of powerful mages used to tend to the shrine, before some crazy sorcerer rolled up and cursed the son with a Ring of Hircine.”

Genos’s shoulders sank. “Saitama….”

Mouth dry, Saitama fished once more into his rucksack.

From its depths, he produced a staff – or rather, half of one. The bottom end of the stick broke off in splinters, while the top fanned in curved prongs that gripped an odd orb at their centre. Fist-sized, the sphere glimmered pearly blue in the dappled sunlight. The staff itself bore intricate carvings, scorched in places and worn by time.

Saitama watched Genos’s throat work through a laboured swallow. The blond’s expression was hard to read, conflicted and somehow sad, and Saitama wondered if he had made a mistake.

“I, uh …” he said, heart in his mouth. “I found it in … well, what was left of the temple. I thought it probably belonged to a priest, or something.”

Fingers trembling, Genos extended a hand. Careful, he gripped the rod. His metal hand then followed suit and Saitama let go, stepped back as his quiet husband inspected the orb. “It did,” said Genos, gruff. He rotated the pole, studied it from every angle with that same guarded look on his face. “It was my father’s. I thought it destroyed, when the Mad Sorcerer razed the village.”

Saitama chewed his lip, squinted as a breeze jostled the canopy. He remembered the story. It was one of the earliest things Genos had shared with him: the tale of his loss. His whole family had died that day – and Genos himself was left with a cursed ring stuck on his finger, forcing him to become a feral werewolf at random. Saitama remembered lying in his bedroll while Genos recited it all, bathed in firelight. It was the night after they first met, camping out on the road to Winterhold.

Saitama remembered it as clear as yesterday, and he would never forget. Every memory with Genos was precious, but that one spoke volumes of the trust they felt for each other. He would never forget.

“I wanted to give you something that … meant something, for our anniversary,” said Saitama. He tried a smile when Genos met his gaze, the blond’s silver eyes wet and shiny. He gestured to the staff. “Now you have a piece of your family back.”

The mage laughed through his nose, tilted his head in warm exasperation. With a rustle of cloth, he swept forward. He took Saitama in a strong embrace, the broken staff all but forgotten in his grip. Saitama held him in pleasant surprise, patted the bump of his spine.

“I already have a family,” said Genos. “A sweet daughter, a boisterous son, and a beautiful husband who still surprises me with his thoughtfulness.”

Saitama flushed at that. Funny how the brat could still get him all embarrassed with sappy talk, even after a whole year together. He slapped Genos a little harder on the back, insistent, but the mage did not pull away. Saitama gave up, sighed.

“Happy anniversary, my love.”

“You too, kid.”

 

*

 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/p1R7rQu0W5Q?t=8s)
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


End file.
